Who Says That Murder's Not An Art?
by EstellaJean
Summary: A London art gallery gains rapid attention after the unveiling of a collection piece leads to a horrific discovery. In place of a prized statue were the bodies of seven women, which appeared to be dipped in wax. However, Sherlock concludes that the bodies were preserved into soap. Unexpected twists await the crime solving duo as they solve their most complicated case yet. Johnlock.
1. Intro: Death on Display

The white room began to shrink as the sound of tapping heels and clinking champagne glasses echoed resolutely and filled the space with vibrating anticipation. The gallery opened its oak doors for the first time, and within an hour guests in long gowns and tuxedos had trickled up the steps and filtered into the wide room. The gallery was elegantly lined with framed paintings, and columns displaying intricate sculptures in a variety of mediums. The chatter of the guests wandering around the marble floor to examine them, created a dull hum occasionally interrupted by an obnoxiously loud laugh, or a voice filled with pretentious enthusiasm. One man in particular caught the attention of people who drifted by to stop at a painting of a blocky skeletal figure, twisted within a vine of colorful paint splatter. The man's height, roughly handsome features, and distinguished charcoal suit almost concealed the graying hair at his temples and his chin. Around him gathered a small crowd of men and women who nodded and sounded their agreement to his claims.

"Christanza's piece here really is intriguing. Look at the carelessness of the paint, at the splatter, and the saturated choice of color palette". His smooth voice drawled, "The achromatic scheme he uses for the background and the figure-a slight cubism inspiration—conveys a contrast between spontaneity and structure, truly capturing his ideas behind this collection—"

The man was stopped short by a poised feminine voice, tinged with cordial airiness to hide her annoyance.

"I should hand you a microphone. You could do my job for me," asserted the accented tone of Meredith Dandurant. The blonde woman in her silver evening gown moved forward into the group of people with intimidating grace.

"Meredith Dandurant," She said and struck out a cold hand towards the man as an offerance.

He scrutinized the thin fingers and manicured nails briefly and then took it into his own much stronger hand with unwavering attitude.

"Bruce Hartford," he replied. They studied each other's eyes and shook with a matched firmness.

"American," she noted.

"French," he observed.

"I understand you are the gallery director. Am I correct?" he questioned. Although the group of people he had previously been entertaining had departed, they still kept in a generally close radius out of curiosity. Their eyes darted between the man and woman over their bubbling flutes of champagne, mumbling thoughtlessly in lowered tones.

"You are correct. Are you in the art business?" she asked in return. A smirk quirked at the edge of the man's mouth. It lifted his face on one side in a way that revealed wrinkles underneath his left eye.

"You could say that," was his only response to her question "Congratulations on acquiring Christanza. He is a shining new artist. A gem."

His smirk broadened to a grin that was so apparently fake that Meredith thought that it might shatter at any given moment. She gave him an equally transparent smile and thanked him for his comment and for attending.

"Of course," he said simply "I couldn't pass up the opportunity to view this event tonight."

"Oh…" she said simply. Her mind whirred with the possibilities behind this stranger's abrupt attendance. Her confusion must have been evident on her face because the man seemed to pick up on it.

"I'm just here to wish you luck, as another art enthusiast and member of the industry," he justified and attempted to make his smile more genuine in appearance. Meredith looked at him quizzically but nodded regardless. Her vision traced his face where something was inexplicably familiar to her but was interrupted.

A short woman in a little black dress scuttled towards her with a clipboard and whispered something in her ear which Bruce couldn't distinguish, but he was sure he heard the word 'schedule'. The short woman hurried away the same way she came and instantly her interruption was forgotten.

"It was lovely meeting you," she said with empty words. The man nodded with another quirked smile and raised his champagne glass in cheers.

"Charmed, Ms. Dandurant."

She shuttered at the sliminess of the man and the sound of her name on his tongue.

"If you will excuse me I have to give the opening speech now," She said before thankfully escaping the man's presence, leaving him looking after her direction while he sipped his champagne. She felt his unreadable expression boring into the back of her head. She resolved to have her assistant Cara research him later.

Within minutes the lights in the gallery room dimmed. The guests gravitated toward a spotlight set on a small stage in the center of the room on which stood a podium where Meredith waited patiently with a warm smile for silence. The crowd settled from its dull roar to a quiet murmur and finally to a vast soundlessness. She cleared her throat lightly and began.

"Thank you, guests and patrons. My name is Meredith Dandurant, the art director of the London Galerie de l'art humain. I am honored to formally invite you to the opening of this truly unique gallery of art. We hope that by the end of this special night you'll find knowledge, inspiration, enlightenment, and a new understanding of the human experience. Friends, I will now introduce you to a man with a vision, a passion, and an unparalleled talent for modern art, the man whose pieces you have seen tonight featuring his debut collection, Leo Christanza."

The French woman raised her arm toward the left and an awkwardly lanky man climbed the steps on the opposite side of the stage. A burst of applause erupted and the man squinted through the glare of the spotlight to smile at the people below. He nervously crossed the stage to the podium where Meredith relinquished her place. When the applause had ended he shakily started to speak.

"Good evening. I appreciate your a-attendance tonight at my first public collection viewing..." he looked down at the podium where his notes lay hidden from view. He licked his lips and struggled on.

"The inspiration behind my art always originates from the same place. It is the place of infinite complexities, in diversity of ideas. It is a web we are all part of. It is both a desire and a challenge. The human experience."

He paused for effect and also to read his next few sentences of notes. He glanced anxiously at the covered display case behind him which would be unveiled in a matter of moments. He wiped his sweaty palms on his stiff tuxedo, which was much too formal for his taste, and then his eyes returned to the dark faces in the shadows beyond.

"I request that as you view my work, you do not define its perfections, nor its flaws, but identify with the art as a whole. Each of us is a work of art. Not to be set apart to be judged, but to be appreciated for our equal human qualities. These qualities will stand against the test of time and fleeting ephemeral life, they will be preserved in art and culture and persevere forever. And now I shall reveal the main installation of my collection, a work really defines my identity as an artist. I introduce the statue, The Woman."

His words slipped from his lips and into the soundless room, the syllables bounced in an echo across the walls and drifted to a stop in the minds of the observers just as the curtain covering the case on the stage began to fall. The red fabric rippled softly in its descent. At first the room remained completely silent and it seemed that even breathing had ceased among the audience. Time slowed, stuck in a single second, stretching it out into infinity. Meredith's anticipating expression had not changed. Even Bruce's composure had not been shocked. Even the drop of sweat on the artist's forehead had not dripped. Then like a gunshot, the moment was shattered with a bloodcurdling shriek from a middle aged woman near the center of the crowd. The sound was the catalyst to an event of horror and chaos. People swung into motion, high pitched screams were contained by the gallery walls and reflected back in endless cycle of cacophony, high heels scraped the marble floor harshly, creating claw marks on the clean new surface, and desperate elbows pushed passed people in a crazed pressure for release from the densely packed and panicked bodies. Minutes later the beautifully decorated room, recently glorified, was left vacant. Fragments of glass littered the floor from champagne flutes discarded in the scramble. Sparkling pieces of fabric from torn evening dresses mingled with crumpled napkins. An abandoned shoe waited in vain for its owner to return. An ornately detailed sculpture which once stood pristinely admired on a display column was now a scatter of remains. The only thing which was static throughout the chaos, the only thing which stood resilient, was the glass display case sitting on the elevated stage in the center of the room. The decayed eyes of the seven corpses within watched from their place as the world unfolded before them.

*Sherlock Theme Song*

...

It's been said that there are some things which you should never do with Sherlock Holmes, that is, unless you have accepted the inevitable headache you will receive. One of these aforementioned things is playing Scrabble. Any kind of game actually, but above all, Scrabble. John learned this the hard way.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Blue eyes locked on cooler blue eyes.

A brown eyebrow rises, quizzical but intent. Daring. Teasing.

Steepled fingertips rapped against one another to the beat of the ticking clock.

The blonde gazes back unwaveringly. Bold.

Eye sex.

Tick Tick Tick...

"_Form"_ The word floated out into the space between them and drifted above their heads in Verdana point 18 font.

"F.O.R.M. 9 points and double letter score for O. 11 points total," John narrated as he placed his letters in the uniform grid. He looked up at his curly headed game opponent, sitting cross legged on the other side of the board. Sherlock never took his eyes off John. He stared with his previous intensity of concentration. John remained locked on him as well. Somewhere under a pile of carelessly tossed aside papers, a phone rang, but the men easily ignored it.

"Boring," the consulting detective drawled and began adding letters to it instantly with rapid, sensitive, moving fingers "Chloroforms. 21 points plus two triple word scores totals 126 points."

There was no sound in response. Sherlock looked up at him to see that John was still staring back but this time with a more dangerous boldness in his eyes. His lips quirked on one side in a look that said he was tediously close to punching his flat mate in the face.

"John," Sherlock began, perhaps to calm him down. John's expression gleamed with challenge and stubborn determination, "Maybe we should play Monopoly inste-"

"I see how it is," He interrupted "This is war now Sherlock and I am still a captain in case you've forgotten. I'm ready for it."

He cracked his knuckles then his neck. Sherlock stifled a laugh at the short man's feisty challenge against his momentous intellect, but could not do so successfully, and it came out as an incredulous "pfft!" sound. This only made John narrow his eyes, in what he probably assumed was a menacing glare.

"Oh John you are so amusing," he laughed. John's serious face didn't falter but there was a twitch in his cheek below his eye. Sherlock stifled another laugh under a humored smile and then cleared his throat, becoming straight faced again.

"If you think you can challenge me then let's do this," he said, holding out the silk bag of letters to John.

"I intend to," John said simply and took four letters. He lined them up on his rack and stared at them intently. In turn, Sherlock stared at John, staring intently. A moment of silence passed except for the ticking of a distant clock hidden in the debris of the apartment. They continued to stare.

"May I give a suggestion that might-"

"No," John said sternly and automatically before he could finish. This was going to take a while, Sherlock thought.

...

Meanwhile back at Scotland Yard a familiar inspector paces his office as he tries to make a call go through on his mobile phone. The ringing pattern continued and the call reaches the voice mailbox again. He punches in the numbers reflexively but the result is the same.

"What on bloody earth could they both have been doing for forty minutes? John always answers his phone," Lestrade muttered with evident frustration. He frowned down at the glowing screen in his hands. Sally leaned against his desk with crossed arms and watched him move from one side of the room to the other.

"They're probably making out somewhere," she snarked. Lestrade stopped pacing and glared.

"This is no time for jokes Donovan! We need them now. This is major." He gestured with his phone clad hand toward her. She gave him her best self-satisfied smile.

"Who said I was joking? Ever since Dr. Watson has moved in with him it seems like he's been harder to contact. And you can't even pretend to deny the eye sex they have."

"Ew. He just has a life now that John's showed him how to be a somewhat normal bloke," he explained. Sally quirked her eyebrow at him like what he just said was utter bullshit.

"I said somewhat. Now we need to focus on the case. We can't wait any longer for them so I need you to take the team to the gallery to do the initial inspection and documentation. I'll meet you there in less than twenty minutes. I'm going to go look for them."

He gathered his jacket from the coat hook and slipped his badge into his pocket.

"Right," Sally nodded in affirmation and set out to complete his requests. After she disappeared through the office door Lestrade muttered to himself as he slipped into his jacket.

"God help us we need Sherlock Holmes."

When he arrived at the black door marked 221B he looked up to see light flooding through the upstairs windows. He huffed and knocked on the door. He waited a moment but no one came, not even Mrs. Hudson. He finally turned the knob and found the door was unlocked, something that neither of them _ever_ did. He entered quickly, panic starting to surface within him. He was ascending the staircase when he heard yelling overhead.

"Shit," he swore. He got emergency services ready on speed dial then dashed up the steps two at a time, mentally preparing himself for a gory scene in which Sherlock probably dissected his flat mate for some twisted experiment. When he got to the entrance of their flat however, there was no gore in sight. In fact what he did see was confusing. There John and Sherlock were sitting cross legged in front of the fireplace, red faced and heavily concentrating on...Scrabble?

"Nurse-practitioner is one thing! Why doesn't it count as a word?"

"Hyphens aren't allowed John."

"It doesn't _say _that anywhere Sherlock!"

"Its common knowledge, they didn't think they would have to explain it to even a novice. They didn't anticipate you ignorance John."

"You arrogant git, you're making up rules to cheat! This is just like when we played Happy Families last Friday!"

He yelled and Lestrade was taken aback by this completely unexpected but ironically completely normal event, looking back and forth between the two men as they argued. Neither of them even noticed his entry into the room.

"I was not _cheating_ I was using statistical probability and that is not mentioned in the rules at all."

"Neither are hyphens in Scrabble!"

"John stop being stubborn just because you want to beat me. You can't. I'm 500 points ahead of you."

"If you shut your damn loud mouth for a moment I'd be able to catch up!"

A smile quirked the side of Lestrade's mouth, then a grin. Suddenly the inspector burst out laughing at the scene of the two men having a quarrel like primary school children, eyes glowing with amusement. Clearly it wasn't the scene he was expecting to find. As usual he gave them a slight disapproving shake of his head.

His outburst finally got John and Sherlock's attention and they remained where there were, stopped dead in their tracks in the middle of their dispute.

"Sorry to break up this very amusing domestic but I've been trying to get a hold of you for 45 minutes. We have a case and you're going to want to see this one right away."

"What case?" Sherlock asked and he got to his feet.

"Seven bodies found in an art gallery," he replied. Sherlock jumped with excitement at the idea and the board on the floor flipped over, scattering the letters into an incoherent mess. John gaped in horror at their ruined game.

"Sherlock..." he uttered low. Sherlock paid no attention, already absorbed in the possibility of a new crime to solve.

"_Seven._Oh. Oh this simply _delicious_! John come on and get your coat on at once!" Sherlock demanded. "Oooh _Seven _murders!"

John continued to look at his scattered pieces on the floor and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath to calm himself down and when he opened them he was ready for action. He stood up and grabbed his jacket off the chair.

"Well alright. Let's go! It sounds pretty damn urgent to just be sitting around."

"I didn't tell you two the best part," Lestrade said. "The bodies have been turned into statues."


	2. Chapter 1: The Art of Deduction

_Seven bodies._

Sherlock's mind reveled at the recently introduced crime at hand as he arrived by cab at the front of the art gallery. Lestrade lingered to pay the cabbie while Sherlock leaped from the vehicle with John close behind him. The consulting detective's senses began their acute gathering of visuospatial information as he navigated the hoard of people blockading the entrance of the art gallery. Law enforcement personnel surrounded the building to keep the swarm of nosy bystanders, eager reporters, and hysterical guests from entering.

_Woman in blue coat on the left, cheap hair dye, clearly a busybody..._  
_A couple, onlookers, returning from a play, obviously boring, probably Shakespearean..._  
_Chief Officer by the steps, definitely incapable and self-conscious, apparently more accustom to paperwork than fieldwork..._  
_Diabetic, 6 feet 7, owns canary..._  
_Old man played the flute until onset of arthritis..._

The camera flashes from the newspaper reporters and social media contributors, shattered his focus. The lightning bolts forced him to shut his eyes. However, it caused his flatmate to take notice.

"Sherlock?" John soothed and placed his palm on the shoulder of his friend's black wool coat. The man turned to face him through the glare of police lights, rushing voices, and a million silent stories begging to be heard. The doctor met his eyes and gave him that concerned and compassionate look that always calmed his thoughts in times of chaos.

"Control it," he said firmly.

Sherlock said nothing but gave a brief nod in understanding. His mind slowly began to unwind and grey out his overwhelming peripheral vision, making his stiff muscles and darting eyes appear to relax. All that was left was John. And the bright archway marking their destination. By that time Lestrade had finished with the cabbie and proceeded to lead them onward. With a glance at the inspector the officers immediately granted them the access to pass.

"This way," he told them as he ducked under the yellow caution tape with the two men in tow, which earned a sarcastic eye roll from Sherlock.

"No...really? The crime scene is located beyond the caution tape and the inadequate officers dispersed among the mob of the irritating public? That's new"

There was an audible sigh from the inspector as they climbed the steps to enter. He was probably already preparing himself for the snarky remarks Sherlock will make when he meets Donovan.

John tried his best to catch up to his partner as he traveled down a white marble hallway lined with paintings and littered with various forgotten items, but the man was practically running to the source where the investigative team congregated. John normally would huff at Sherlock's urgency and disregard for him during his "new case frenzy" but somehow this time was different. As he passed shattered statues, torn shawls, and evening bags, in the muddle of lost things scattered along the regal tile floor, he found himself growing curious as well. It was bizarre for him to think about what Lestrade had said earlier about the bodies being turned into statues.

"Were they covered in plaster or something?" he questioned out loud. Lestrade who was walking quickly beside him shook his head.

"No it wasn't quite like that. More like wax museum statues you know?"

"Oh, right," John nodded but had no idea what the inspector meant by that at all.

The mouth of the hallway opened up into a large oval room where police and crime scene assistants wandered around, documenting evidence and taking photos of the disheveled space. The amount of personnel in the room was almost overwhelming until from the mass emerged a familiar, but not entirely welcome face.

"Well it's about bloody time you showed up! I've been running this show on my own," came Sally Donovan's cold and critical voice. Sherlock bumped past the woman as if she weren't even there and continued to the stage behind her with incredible speed. John's eyes followed his path to the center of the room.

Several feet above the ground was a slightly elevated stage where a glass display case had previously been standing. The glass casement had been carefully removed, most likely being examined, and what remained was just the rectangular metal frame. Within it stood seven naked and stiffly posed forms of female bodies, unmistakably solid in appearance and infected with a postmortem paleness recognizable even at a distance. The most notable trait however, was the wax like sheen of their skin. The texture was smooth and dense with an almost slimy film of coating covering the majority of their exterior. The bodies were nearly spared of decomposition except for their gory faces, eyes gelatinous and only partially intact, jaws exposed where the flesh had retreated and decayed teeth had rotted away under layers of obsidian gums.

On the stage Sherlock's eyes quickly flitted over the corpses, taking in every angle and perspective, stepping inside the metal cage and dancing strangely but gracefully in between them to get a better view of each.

_Waxy consistency. Tissue preservation... _He pondered. His mind slipped further away.  
_Triglycerides _  
_NaOH_  
_Oxygen deprivation. Ah..._

He grinned with the satisfaction of discovery.

John climbed the steps up to the stage. Following Lestrade, he reached the display case. He took in the sight with a slower method than Sherlock, body by body. He furrowed his brow and wrinkled his forehead in the process of concentration. He struggled to find an explanation for the state of the bodies, for the strange hardness which had taken over the limbs and the slippery appearance of the skin which glowed under the sickly blinding lights above. It made his stomach twist for some reason. Yet compared too many bodies he had seen over the years these ones were in a fairly mild state. He couldn't even see any visible marks of a weapon used on the victims or signs of strangulation. Still he felt an eerie chill run through him at the sight.

"Well," John said clearing his throat "They make my last girlfriend look like a supermodel," he chuckled to lighten the mood. After the looks he received from Donovan and Lestrade, he reminded himself not to make jokes.

"They look like they've been dipped in wax," Sergeant Donovan interrupted his thoughts.

Sherlock's head abruptly shot up from behind the body of a fat middle aged woman. His face contorted in a pained expression. John took a deep breath. He readied himself for the onslaught of insults about intelligence, and then the overdrawn but fantastically detailed explanation of why Sherlock must be the only person who has even a moderate level of reasoning.

"Dipped in wax? Lestrade, are you sure your department isn't suffering from an outbreak of stupidity? It's quite contagious. It takes one idiot to make a subtle comment and the next thing you know your investigation is being led by glaring inaccuracies. Obviously these bodies weren't "dipped in wax". It's the process of saponification," his voice sounded exasperated from needing to explain himself.

John let out the breath he held and rolled his eyes at the drama Sherlock always found a way of causing.

"Sherlock..." he said gently but the man ignored him as usual.

Sergeant Donovan crossed her arms and bit her lip to prevent yelling the list of curses she had whirling in her mind already for Sherlock. But even she was curious about this case and although she would never give Sherlock credit, inside she had the same expectant expression which John and Lestrade wore as they waited for him to go on.

There had barely been a pause since his last outburst when Sherlock groaned in a ridiculously theatrical way and continued his explanation. _Here comes the overdrawn but fantastically detailed explanation part... _John thought to himself. But truly although exasperated by Sherlock's attitude, he found this particular explanation to be one of intense interest. Sherlock's eyes glowed as he began to sort out the facts in his mind with an obsessed enthusiasm.

"Saponification is the chemical process of turning the alkaline hydrolysis of esters, or more commonly referred to as triglycerides, into carboxylic acids. Sodium hydroxide is a strong alkali which is highly soluble in water and creates the base for the process which when met with triglycerides results in a product of soap and glycerol. The fat in the bodies is an unpurified triglyceride, and just like the common animal fat, is capable of reacting with NaOH but only in very low oxygen environments with high moisture content. It is simply the process which creates the formation of solid soap, however when it occurs in corpses it is referred to as adipocere, a fairly rare process that occurs to corpses due to the specific environmental requirements needed for the process to begin."

"They turned into soap?" John asked incredulously. Even with all the strange occurrences he and Sherlock had witnessed throughout their many cases together, this was still a bizarre and unbelievable concept to him.

"At least partially," Sherlock continued. "Beneath the outer layer of saponified tissues there may be fat which was spared from the adipocere process. The corpse might not have been exposed long enough for the process to penetrate the body tissues completely. However it appears from a first examination that the saponification is moderate. It isn't likely that there are enough unaltered tissues to run DNA tests on the corpses. You'll have to take dental samples for DNA analysis."

"Brilliant," John said in amazement. "Absolutely brilliant," he smiled at his friend in admiration. He was always surprised when Sherlock found new ways to astound him. Not the finding spinal fluid in his favorite Tardis mug kind of astounding, he had come to expect that, but the kind that made him feel electrified and warm in the presence of the consulting detective. It was the kind of astounding he felt when Sherlock noticed when he was having a bad day from his choice of television shows, or by the vending machine snacks he had eaten earlier. Those are the deductions that astound him the most, but occasionally these out of the ordinary intellectual conclusions he arrives at do as well.

Sherlock would never admit it but his pride was given an apparent boost from John's praise, seemingly the only praise of value to him. The need to show off struck him once more and he zeroed in on the subject at hand, beginning to further examine the bodies with renewed fever. Slowly the world around him dissolved into a muffled fog, as if a pane of frosted glass separated him from everything beyond.

_All bodies female, _his voice spoke within his mind, _varying ages, sizes, and ethnicities. No apparent link or relationship._  
_Moderately to severely saponified. _  
_Saponification takes at least 6 months for moderate development which would place death at roughly 6 months_  
_Damp hair. Dry skin. Stored in water until removed somewhere between 24-30 hours ago. The exposure to air would have dried their skin but not their hair entirely because of the sealed casement they were in._  
_Hands and feet, red toned from hypostasis or settling of internal blood. Body has been suspended in water, making blood drain to lowest parts of body, the hands and feet._  
His eyes glanced to the woman whose neck he studied earlier and to the bodies of the other corpses.  
_Patches of pink surrounding various areas of the body including neck, stomach, and face._  
_Hm, face?_

Sherlock sniffed the face of one woman and abruptly pulled away.

"Almonds," he muttered to himself. John gave him a peculiar look and wondered what on earth he was thinking.

_Cyanide poisoning. It smells of almonds and leaves pink areas of skin caused by increased hemoglobin oxygen saturation._  
_Darker concentration of blood settling around backside of body. Well naturally, if they were suspended with their backs to the bottom of the lake. Ligature impression around midsection where the rope that held them down was tied. Is that a thread? Interesting..._

"Lestrade, tweezers," He blurted out demandingly. Lestrade looked around the room then his eyes landed on Donovan. She rolled her eyes and grudgingly found a forensic analyst to borrow tweezers from. She handed them to Sherlock with as much attitude as she could muster as if this would prevent him from asking her for things in the future. John laughed to himself, knowing that whenever she uses attitude with Sherlock it's always a waste of energy.

Sherlock grabbed the tool from her swiftly like it had simply appeared in the air in front of him. Then the consulting detective reached into his pocket to receive a small magnified glass and crouched to hold it up to the body. He found a glimmer of a curled thread stuck to the skin of a corpse's stomach. He placed it in a plastic bag and returned it to his pocket. John wondered what he had discovered already. He eagerly awaited Sherlock's explanation. Tired of the long show Sherlock performed with his silence, Lestrade let out an audible sigh.

"Well?" The inspector pushed. Sherlock looked up at him, broken from thought finally. He returned to a standing position and began his explanation.

"They've been dead roughly six months. The saponification would take that long to develop moderately. After they were killed, the murderer tied the bodies with jute rope and weighted them under still low oxygen water, probably a lake, within 18 hours of death when internal blood was still affected by movement. The internal blood pooled in their hands and feet because they were suspended in the water, therefore making them the lowest parts of the body. The remaining blood settled in the backside of their body where it eventually set. The other patches of pink toned skin affected the body in seemingly random areas, parts of the neck, the stomach, the face, because these are the obvious external signs of cyanide poisoning. You can smell the faint aroma of bitter almonds where they most likely inhaled it, placing the cause of death as asphyxiation by cyanide poisoning. However, if this killer was so well-rehearsed, from his method of killing to his display of the bodies at a private event, then why would he choose jute rope to tie them up?"

He looked directly at Lestrade and after a moment of pause the inspector realized this was not rhetorical and balked to find an answer to the question.  
"Because it's all you have at hand?" he suggested hopefully.

"No," Sherlock replied automatically, growing increasingly energetic "If someone went through all this trouble they wouldn't have been going for "good enough", they wouldn't risk it with such a grand plan at stake. They chose jute rope because they didn't know that it is biodegradable and would eventually release the bindings around the bodies."

"Right..." responded Lestrade, obviously at a loss to understand. Sherlock looked at him with buzzing excitement.

"Don't you see? The killer is not experienced. This is someone who has simply done their research. Now the question is why. Why would someone kill seven women, seemingly random women, saponify them, and then put them on display for an art gallery opening?"

John suddenly followed Sherlock's racing train of thought and the two men caught eyes in the moment, knowing they both understood.

"To send a message," John replied.

"Yes!" Sherlock shouted. "It was dramatic, theatrical. Someone that attended last night was meant to receive a message, perhaps someone who knew these women or perhaps it was a message to the world. A message of what? We need to talk to the gallery director."

Sherlock swung around to look at Sergeant Donovan, still standing unimpressed with her arms crossed. Lestrade gave her a look of warning and she finally consented.

"Yeah alright, follow me," she muttered begrudgingly.


	3. Chapter 2: The Woman in the Silver Dress

The director's office was located on the far side of the gallery. The door was almost indistinguishable it was so seamlessly cut into the wall. Its only indication was a subtle silver handle which Donovan opened to reveal a posh looking room furnished with minimalist furniture of glass and chrome. It was the kind of room that reminded John of a high tech airport security terminal, uniform, sparse and singular in its purpose. It smelled slightly of citrus, which came to no surprise when he spotted a geometric metal bowl filled with oranges and apples on a side table next to the door.

When the detective inspector and the two flatmates entered, the other occupants of the room turned to give their attention to them. Two policemen stood in the way of a slender metallic desk in the center of the room. Sergeant Donovan, still leaning against the door, nodded to the officers and they left the room with her quietly. As the men in uniform moved, a pair of smooth female legs could be seen underneath the desk, peaking from the side slit of a satin silver dress. John and Lestrade both made efforts not to stare at them, sliding their eyes upward to see the rest of the woman. Meredith sat back in her black leather chair with her arms folded. Her steely blue eyes enchanted anyone who kept a lingered gaze on them, conveniently disguising her deepest thoughts.

"Sherlock Holmes," She uttered smoothly, brushing a lock of straight golden hair behind her ear, giving no attention to the two other men. John and Lestrade shared a look, both accustomed to lying in the background as Sherlock and his ego took over.

"I don't believe we've met," he replied with a quirked eyebrow at the woman.

"That's true. But I knew you would be coming. I recognize you from the news."

The art director pulled open a drawer and removed a folded newspaper, reaching across the desk to hand it to the consulting detective. On the front was a picture of him with that ridiculous deerstalker hat. He looked at his popular headliner photograph disdainfully, then back to the woman. She leaned forward in her chair, placing her elbows on her desk.

"Mr. Holmes I understand you are a specialist regarding…unusual crimes-"

"All really," he interjected. She remained quiet for a moment, annoyed by the interruption. When she spoke again she lowered her tone. While she spoke Sherlock snatched an apple from the bowl by the door, filling the small room with a resonating crunch as he took a large bite.

"The statue that was stolen tonight is the biggest asset to my gallery, and I need it to be found as efficiently as possible. Its permanent loss would devastate me and my business," she implored this with severity, "However, I must ask that you use a high level of sensitivity. I know how you are prone to catching the public's eye and I've already endured enough bad publicity. I'm afraid what the consequences would be if more unfavorable information or allegations about my gallery were leaked in the news."

Sherlock grabbed the back of the seat opposite her and swung it around, sitting down to face her with his shoes on her desk. She pretended the rude gesture didn't affect her and remained unfaltering. He stared at his apple, turning it around in his hand as he responded.

"As long as this place isn't hiding any skeletons in its cupboards i'm sure you won't have anything to be concerned about," Sherlock replied bitingly. "But since you already have seven of them you might as well tell me if you have any others. I'll dig them up either way. I always do, but then again you are such a fan that you already know that," he gave her a small sarcastic smile.

Meredith's politeness seemed to fade away as his attitude worsened. She pursed her lips together and narrowed her eyes, leaning back once again with her hands clasped on her satin covered knee. It wasn't until this moment that she realized others had entered with Sherlock. Her eyes first settled on John who was looking about the furnishings in the office and studying the oddly shaped paperweight on her desk, embarrassed by his partner's sarcasm.

"And you are?" she asked him. Sherlock looked back and gave John a glance.

They both replied to the question in the same instant.

"He's my flatmate."

"I'm his friend."

John awkwardly corrected both of their answers. "Partners," he settled on. Instantly the thought occurred to him that some people might take that in other ways then it was intended.

"In a strictly platonic...professional way," he added quickly with an uncomfortable smile.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Meredith Dandurant the director of this gallery, as you probably already know."

She looked to Lestrade. "You must be the detective inspector Lestrade? The woman that was questioning me said you would arrive shortly. I hope you'll be able to find my statue as soon as possible."

"Yes I'm Lestrade, but i'm sorry to tell you Mrs. Dandurant-"

"Miss," she muttered.

"-Miss Dandurant, but our department doesn't deal with stolen property. We only have jurisdiction over the murders I'm afraid. But we do have Sherlock and John here to help you with that."

"How fortunate," she said, barely trying to hide her annoyance. Apparently the negative aspects of Sherlock's personality were left out of the headliners. The woman wasn't a fan of unpleasant surprises. John suddenly felt a pang of guilt for the woman sitting behind the desk, although she did have a stuck up air about her. Nevertheless, she had just sustained a pretty big shock and her concerns deserved to be taken seriously.

"We'll try our best to be sensitive about the situation," John told the woman finally,

"If you need us to be confidential we will be."

Relief appeared behind Meredith's crystal blue eyes. It's not a common occurrence for her to find someone trustworthy at first meeting, but as she examined John's sincere smile her breathing steadied for the first time since her speech earlier that night.

"Please sit," she gestured to the chair beside Sherlock.

"Thank you," the doctor nodded and sank into the leather. Sherlock paused from taking another bite of the apple and let out a steady stream of orders before returning to it.

"John get out your journal. Lestrade proceed with the questions."

"He's charming," Meredith said sarcastically.

"You get used to it," John replied while rummaging through his satchel for a small black notebook which he reserved for recording their case notes. Once he found it, his fingers grazed the cover admiringly. He flipped through the dust and nostalgia scented paper, which had become yellowed and stained with constant use, until he landed on a fresh unwritten page.

On the top he wrote: The Case of the Soap People and the Missing Statue

His eyes landed on Lestrade to indicate he was ready. Lestrade, still taken off guard by Sherlock's unusual demand for him to begin the questioning process, stepped tentatively toward the witness.

"Are you sure you want me to ask the questions?" he checked for confirmation.

"Positive," Sherlock stated with finality taking another bite of the scarlet apple.

"Alright then," the inspector cleared his throat and began.

"So you said there was a statue stolen as well? Could you tell us what happened exactly?"

Sherlock smirked at the originality of the question and John gave him a look of warning. Meredith retold the previous events of the night in detail from the time she set foot on the stage for her speech to the moment when the guests began their chaotic stampede for the exit, to her complete and utter shock when she saw what was gruesomely left standing in the place of her statue.

"It took me some time to realize what was happening. I was in shock. My assistant Cara shook me until I realized everyone had fled the building. They were all forced to leave because of the pressure of the crowd. Luckily, Cara had jumped up on the stage and called the police."

The consulting detective groaned. The three glanced at him but he said nothing.

"Okay. Did you see any suspicious activity tonight?" Lestrade continued.

"No. Nothing really comes to mind," Meredith shrugged. She looked down at her hands as she spoke, checking to make sure her nails were still intact.

Sherlock groaned again and crossed his legs the other way on top of Meredith's desk. John looked up from writing, recognizing that as one of Sherlock's many signs of agitation. Lestrade was asking the wrong questions and he needed to intervene before his friend's impatience caused a row.

"This gallery must have surveillance cameras," John interrupted, "have you checked the footage?"

"Cara was just about to show Miss Donovan I believe. I don't understand. We have a fully operation security system. If someone broke in our alarms would notify us and the police within minutes. How could all of this happen without us knowing?"

"That is a very good question," John agreed, completely baffled. "Sherlock, any theories?"

The man was now staring off, clearly lost in thought.

"Perhaps," he responded distantly, "how big was it, the statue?"

"About seven meters tall I suppose," Meredith responded.

"Weight?"

She thought about the question for a minute.

"I'd say close to 450 kilograms."

_An experienced team would take 4-5 movers to transport it safely._ Sherlock pondered. _Probably one at the vehicle to watch for trouble. A moving truck would be necessary as well as an industrial dolly, often used for moving grand pianos and safes. Clearly this would have to be done by very skilled and knowledgeable people, capable of disarming complex security systems. Seems a bit contradictory compared to the jute rope used on the bodies._

"Did you recognize any of the victims?" Sherlock questioned, switching the subject to the bodies.

"No. As far as I can tell… with the decomposition," she said with the slightest wince. John decided it would be best to avoid the more morbid topics at the moment.

"Did the guests arrive by invite?" he asked. She seemed grateful for the change and even perked up at the question.

"Oh yes they were. I have a guest list," she searched through a file drawer, quickly retrieving a folder which contained all of her itineraries and plans for that night's event. On the top of the pile was the invitation list. The list claimed Sherlock's attention enough for him to put his half eaten apple down on the desk. He scanned the paper, hoping to find something that might strike out to him.

"Was there anyone tonight who stood out to you?" Lestrade questioned, hoping that it might redeem him after Sherlock's criticism.

Sherlock's eyes stopped on a familiar name._ Augustus Weinfeld._

"Oh," Meredith abruptly uttered, breaking his thoughts. "I almost forgot. It was suspicious at the time but then after all the chaos it wasn't a priority anymore."

"What is it?" the inspector probed. Meredith's eyes trailed off as she tried to recall accurately.

"Bruce Hartford… I didn't invite him. He showed up and I hadn't met him before tonight."

John looked at Sherlock as if to confirm if the name rang a bell. Sherlock shook his head with a thoughtful expression.

"What was he like? What did you discuss?" Lestrade continued.

"He was mysterious, and American. He didn't tell me what he does, except that we worked in the art industry. He knew quite a lot about Christanza's art, specific pieces, but this was the first time they were available for public viewing."

"And you said the artist's name was Christanza?"

"Yes. Leo Christanza. He's a new artist. I was the first gallery to sign him. He's been creating this art collection for my gallery for the past two years. The London Art Museum was even interested in him."

"Where is he now? Do you know?" Lestrade asked as he sat on the corner of her desk.

"No, he disappeared with the crowd I think. I remember seeing him looking very distraught. I should probably phone him. I'm sure he would like to be kept updated."

John finished writing his notes and then made eye contact with Lestrade and Sherlock.

"Is that all for now?" he asked them.

"Yes," Sherlock said, standing up quickly and straightening his jacket. "We have what we need for now. We need to see the security footage."

He looked to Meredith and she nodded. "Of course. I'll see where Cara is. Excuse me for a moment."

She moved to leave the room with a lithe and catlike body. Her dress shimmering like mercury as she slipped out of the door, graceful yet powerful. John turned to Sherlock as soon as the door closed.

"What do you think of her?"

"Suspicious."

"Exactly what I was thinking. There's something a bit off about her."

Sherlock began pacing the room. Lestrade changed positions on the desk so he could face him.

"Why is she suspicious? That seems harsh don't you think? You just talked with her for a few minutes. That can hardly be a judge of character."

Sherlock stopped pacing to give him an incredulous look.

"Lestrade, don't be a fool. She is a woman of power who uses her attractive appearance to distract men with mental vulnerabilities." he looked Lestrade up and down to indicate that he was one such man. Lestrade took offense to the comment, his face falling. He looked to John but he didn't show any sign of agreeing with the inspector.

"Greg you must admit she seemed to be very...guarded. She didn't give us much information."

"Exactly John!" Sherlock exclaimed with zeal. "Why would she make that comment about keeping our investigation as quiet as possible and reserving any information we discover about her gallery private? Because there is something she is keeping from us. Something she is keeping from everyone. Maybe it's connected to the case, maybe it isn't. But that chance makes it vitally important. Did you also fail to see, Lestrade, how unaffected she was by the bodies? They were right next to her, decayed, rotting in front of her, and she barely mentioned them?"

"Well I don't know about that Sherlock. She seemed disturbed to me. When you asked if she recognized them she seemed put off."

"Put off? The average person would be in tears and she's concerned about the state of her nails," he snorted in disbelief.

"The average person yes," John interrupted, "But some people deal with emotions by telling themselves they are irrelevant. Some people rely on logic instead," John responded, looking straight up into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock stared back and for a single second the doctor swore he saw them shining with truth, but the man looked away as quickly as the feeling was shared.

"Insurance fraud," Sherlock stated while looking away. "It's one of my theories for the stolen statue. She hired a moving truck and paid a group of movers to take the statue to another location. I predict in the next few days she will claim the item missing with her insurance company. But that's only one theory. It seems too simple and she seems too smart to pull something so stupid. And I don't know how that would tie in with the bodies."

"That is an interesting point. You said the murderer was inexperienced. Then how did they steal a statue and bring in seven bodies without triggering an alarm?" Lestrade inquired with confusion.

"Yes…" Sherlock thought as he paced again. "A crime of profit and a crime of passion. An experienced thief and an inexperienced killer...these are two different crimes, by two different criminals."

"At the same time?" John asked, "how?"

"We shall find out," Sherlock concluded confidently just as someone entered the room.

A woman with dark hair and wide bookish glasses appeared from behind the door. The three men looked down at her, surprised by her shortness.

"I'm Cara, Meredith's assistant. She said you wanted to see the security footage," She chirped in a gentle yet high pitched voice.

"Um...yes thank you," John responded as the other men remained in awe by the woman's peculiarity.

"I'll show you if you'll just follow me," she squeaked and held the door open for them to exit. Trying not to laugh at the squirrelish woman, the three of them left the director's office and entered the great gallery room once again.


	4. Chapter 3: Shadows and Footprints

After following the strange assistant down several corridors, and finally behind a pair of locked double doors, the inspector, the consulting detective, and the doctor, found themselves in an area unlike the rest of the gallery. Here the walls were bare gray concrete and the winding ventilation system was visible overhead. Forklifts and dollies lined the left wall, while on the right wall short towers of carefully stacked wooden crates were erected in the darkness. A draft whispered through the vacant room, causing the hair on John's arms to prickle even underneath the protection of his warm jacket.

"A bit creepy," Lestrade commented. John nodded, a small shiver running through him which he blamed on the cold air, but in his subconscious, the image of the saponified corpses kept coming back. Sherlock took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smell of sawdust and Cara's jasmine scented perfume.

Suddenly he stopped short. The sound of something wet in the far corner caught his attention. His back straightened and he looked off in the direction of the crates, his eyes darting in alert. His partner stopped as well.

"What?" John asked. Instinctively his muscles tightened and his heart rate sped up. He took a protective step closer to Sherlock, but the man was too preoccupied to notice as he sensed a shadow move. Everything was silent. John peered in the same direction but saw nothing.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, searching for the glimpse he'd seen of some undefined shape.

"I thought I saw someone," he answered. He waited a moment more but did not see it again. The room remained still and quiet. Lestrade let out an impatient sigh.

"C'mon Sherlock stop wasting our time with your delusions."

Feeling his pride take a hit, the tall man tore himself away from his suspicions and continued to follow the petite woman, but John still remained protectively close by his side. The odd assistant turned to a wall niche on the left, which framed a metal door. On its face, a black box with a green blinking light stood out where a handle typically would be. Cara slipped her lanyard over her head and pressed her keycard to the box. The box beeped, the lock mechanism shifted, and the door opened a crack, letting a stream of blue light seep into the shadowed space. She pushed open the door to reveal Sally Donovan and a balding security guard leaning over a computer screen, focusing intently on the illuminated display. Meredith stood behind them with crossed arms, the blue light reflecting off of her silver dress, transforming it to a watery shade. The room smelled musty, like dust and coffee, and old biscuit crumbs. Sherlock instantly began noticing things around him. _There is an extra uniform hanging on a hanger against the back wall. It seems wet, clinging to itself in some areas. The floor is clean. The coffee has been reheated twice._

"I don't understand why it's not working," the security guard mumbled. He fiddled with the controls on the computer but still couldn't seem to figure out whatever was wrong. Six screens above him featured frozen frames of video.

"They still haven't fixed it," Cara said with a sigh. Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"What isn't working?" he questioned.

"The video footage," Donovan said turning to them, "It cuts out at...11:43 pm last night."

"Show me what you have then. The five minutes before it shorts out," Sherlock commanded. The man clicked a button and the videos from six different locations within the gallery appeared on the screens above. Four screens displayed locations inside the gallery, one of them from the main room above the stage with the bodies, and the other two above the entrances to the gallery. The indoor locations were pitch dark and only visible because of the green night vision filter on the camera. The main entrance and the loading zone were bathed in golden light, revealing insects which traveled through the air in haphazard paths. The two inspectors, and the flatmates, examined the video feed carefully but nothing was learned from it. Then the frames froze once again at 11:43.

"It's probably a glitch," the security man explained.

"If it was a glitch then why weren't the alarms triggered last night?" Meredith asked with a tinge of frustration in her tone. She was beginning to panic but kept it hidden under a cool disposition. She tried her best not to pace, swaying back and forth gently instead, like the lazy ebb and flow of the ocean.

"Maybe it's a hack," Lestrade offered. The security guard shook his head, finally turning to look at the newcomers.

"It can't be inspector. Our firewall doesn't show any signs of being attacked."

"Well wouldn't you say that glitch is all too convenient?" Sherlock snarked, "Exactly at the time of a theft and the placement of seven bodies?"

"Look he's not lying!" Sally yelled, "I've looked at it too. There's no sign of a hacker and I would know."

"Because of course you always know Donovan. Just like you knew the bodies were "dipped in wax"," Sherlock said sarcastically, even letting out an amused laugh at the thought.

"Look smartarse-"

"Srgt. Donovan" Lestrade warned. She bit her tongue and looked at Sherlock with rage.

"Fine. Then tell us what happened genius," she bitterly commanded. Sherlock looked at her with a straight face, his mind sifting through ideas.

_How could a hack be untraceable? All viruses leave traces. Even the best can be detected, even if the detection is too late for prevention. Perhaps what happened wasn't a hack._

_Maybe the security was manually turned off. There's only three people who could have that power. The security guard, Cara the assistant, and Meredith herself. Programmable key cards are impossible to duplicate without hacking the system which programmed them. However they could have been stolen from one of the three aforementioned people and returned to them before causing suspicion._

_Meredith is precautionary. That is apparent because of the frequent lock changes on her file cabinets. I noticed this when she removed the file to find the guest list. She disposed of the old keys in the waste bin by the table where I grabbed the apple. She removed the lock core because there was no sign of drilling into the cabinet to remove the lock. She had to have the keys still in order to remove them. This indicates she changed the locks by choice not necessity. She is the type that would keep her key card locked up even when she's in her flat, which would clearly be located in a safe neighborhood considering her wealth. If a thief was to steal one of the key cards it wouldn't be hers._

_Cara is thoughtless. Her mind drifts which is apparent by her uneven eye makeup. She takes great care in her appearance, spending over 600__£ on a designer dress for this event, purchasing a special shade of lipstick called écarlate, identifiable by its scent of acai berry. Yet she put on her eye makeup unevenly this morning. Perhaps it was because she was tired last night after her long day of preparing the gallery for its opening. Although an attempt at concealment was made, the dark circles under her eyes were still visible in the bright light of the gallery's main room. She in fact, fell asleep in her clothes. There's a red mark on her neck where the rough strap of her lanyard pressed into her skin as she slept, making it too risky a target for the thief._

_The security guard is busy. The extra uniform hanging on the back wall was recently worn. There's a blueberry muffin stain on the cuff and crumbs from the same muffin on the computer keyboard. However the same uniform has a security badge with a London bank logo. It appears slightly damp. About midnight last night there was a downpour. I remember John and I couldn't sleep so I played my violin for an hour. He worked a night shift at the bank and day shift at the art gallery yesterday, leaving the security system to protect the gallery. He hadn't changed between jobs because he was in a hurry so he would have had both badges and his key card with him all night._

_The key cards were never taken. Either one of those three people used their key card themselves to shut off security or it was something else…_

_What else other than a hack or manual controls could turn off a security system?_

"A power outage. Everything would have been down. Not just the cameras but the alarms, the lighting, even the automatic security locks. Making it ever too convenient for the thief and the murderer," Sherlock stated. Everyone in the room turned to him, speechless at swiftness of his response.

"How could you possibly guess that?" Lestrade asked, dumbstruck with how quickly the consulting detective came to that conclusion.

"It was simple really," Sherlock responded with his typical arrogance. The security guard immediately began typing into the master computer to check the accuracy of his assumption.

"Hold on a bloody moment. If the power went out there would be a generator that turns on," Donovan protested.

The security guard finished typing.

"It was…" he said, staring at his screen, "It takes ten minutes for the backup to turn on. The rest of the video feed was sent to the backup computer drive while the master drive rebooted"

He played the video again and this time the frozen screens came back to life. They watched in silence for several minutes but still nothing crossed the cameras except for a rather large moth by the loading area. Donovan groaned in frustration, her head hanging in defeat.

"Well that was a dead end" she sighed.

"Are you telling me you think they could do this is in only ten minutes? Is that even possible?" John inquired, trying his best to believe it.

"It is possible for the right people," Sherlock told him.

"Can we get the footage from yesterday on a flash drive?" Lestrade asked the security guard. He nodded fervently, happy to finally be of some help.

"Of course. Of course inspector. It'll take just a few minutes to upload"

Flustered, he began fumbling for a flash drive in the drawer of the desk, mumbling to himself as he did so. He continued to fiddle with the computer and mumble, while the investigators spoke.

"You better call the London power company tomorrow Lestrade." Sherlock told him.

"Right. I'll go with them when they do their inspection. Is there anything else you'd like to inspect tonight, Sherlock?"

"Yes. That loading zone," he said, pointing to the screen on the top left.

"Alright," John agreed. The mumbling coming from the security guard became louder. John and Sherlock gave each other a look with quirked eyebrows.

"He's just tired," Meredith explained with embarrassment.

"That's alright," John told him but he couldn't help but think it was strange.

"Thank you for your help. Well we better be going Sherlock," he said eagerly, nodding to the door so he'd understand his meaning. Sherlock nodded once in agreement.

"I need to see the loading zone," Sherlock stated bluntly.

"Oh I'll show you where it is, Mr. Holmes," Cara offered. The occupants of the room began shuffling toward the door.

Sherlock pushed it open and nearly jumped as he met an unexpected grim figure, partially in the shadows. The old man'sface was hidden behind a mound of white scruff, making only his wrinkled parchment skin around his coal black eyes visible.

"Dirty polizisten," the man spat at Sherlock's face vehemently. Sherlock looked at him with utter shock, yanking back his head as the man spattered saliva on his face with the insult.

"Mr. Eisenheim!" Cara peeped. The caretaker grumbled something gruffly in German and then glared at the woman.

"They make filth," he growled with a hoarse voice. He thrust a mop along the floor in front of him to establish his point. Meredith shook her head, her eyes burning.

"You can't be cleaning right now, there's an investigation going on," she ordered, "You're excused from your duties until the investigation is over. We won't need cleaning. It interferes."

He looked from her to Sherlock, and then John who was right behind them. He huffed, dropping his mop into the bucket of dirty water with a resentful splash and carting it noisily away to the dark doorway of a cleaning cupboard.

As soon as he was out of sight they continued on their way and Sherlock used a handkerchief to wipe his face.

"Are you alright?" John asked, automatically worried.

"Yes, of course," he told him nonchalantly as if nothing had happened.

"I'm very sorry for his rudeness. He doesn't like policemen," she told them.

_The people who work here are all very strange, _John thought to himself, growing ever more curious and confused.

Cara led the company to a garage door on the back wall of the room. She typed into a keypad on the wall and the door slowly ascended until it was open. The ground of the outside loading zone was cracked tarmac, which eventually led into the cobblestone street of the broad alleyway beyond. There was a green skip on the side, and a tall brick building of flats across the way. White trim rimmed their rectangular windows which were mostly dark due to the time of night. The faint sound of the sirens in the front of the gallery were still perceived here in the back. Sherlock stepped out of the door first, and walked over to a dark spot in the middle of the parking area.

"Motor oil" he muttered. "Probably from the lorry. It's fresh but it has been watered down by the rain. The hydrocarbons should still be visible under a UV light. Lestrade?"

"On it" Lestrade told him, searching his pockets for a handheld blacklight. Finding that he actually did not have one, he sheepishly looked to Sally. She sighed at his absentmindedness and produced the torch from her bag, handing it to the consulting detective.

"We need to turn off these outdoor lights," he told Cara. She nodded and quickly went inside to use the controls on the wall she previously used to lift the door. A minute later they were left in mostly darkness. Sherlock flipped on the UV light and instantly the faded impressions of footprints lit up in a fluorescent blue shade all over the dark surface. Carefully he stepped his way around them, making sure to avoid the spot of oil himself. John followed his lead, hopping in between the latent footprints until he reached a place where there were none, the same place where the vehicle itself was parked. He crouched down beside Sherlock to get a better look. Sgt. Donovan and Lestrade also worked their way to some of the more faded footprints. Donovan began measuring them with a measuring tape she had with her.

"26.7 centimeters," she read as Lestrade recorded the number. They continued measuring the footprints around them as Sherlock and John examined their other features.

"What do you notice John?" Sherlock questioned him. John sighed, hoping this wouldn't turn into one of those moments when Sherlock cuts down all of his observations, and replaces them with his own much more developed ones.

"Um...the soles have lost a lot of their tread?" he suggested. Sherlock nodded.

"Good, continue," he encouraged.

"They've probably been worn frequently."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "look closer."

John leaned closer to the surface and noticed a strangely uniform pattern of wide horizontal chips missing from the sole.

"Something's been cut off…"

"Yes. The logo has been cut off, roughly, with a pocket knife. Also notice how it's darker in the front than in the back?"

"Yeah I see that. What does it mean?"

"The shoes were over sized, making the man wearing them put his weight into the front of the shoe to keep them from slipping. This was intentional. They didn't want their shoes to be identifiable clues. They probably got these shoes from a second hand store. They are quite clever," Sherlock laughed. John agreed, finding this investigation to be increasingly harder by the minute. _At least it keeps Sherlock entertained, _he thought. _Maybe now he'll be too busy to litter our flat with smelly science experiments._

Sherlock stood up, satisfied with his discoveries for the night.

"You better have your men document these Lestrade," he told the inspector, handing him the UV light again, "Although I'm positive they'll lead us nowhere. At least it will give them something to do instead of standing around drinking coffee. I think we are done for tonight John. Send us the autopsies as soon as you get them and any identification reports you receive on the victims or the electrician."

"Alright Sherlock, thanks for your help," Lestrade praised, although it was against his better judgment to thank Sherlock. It would only go to his ego. Sherlock smirked at Donovan on his way out and she returned him a look of utter resentment.

The two flatmates left the gallery at a much slower pace than they entered it, allowing their minds to relax after the long night of complex information. John always found it easier to think about a case once he'd had a good night's sleep. Bodies turned into soap, footprints, and missing videos were all too much to think about in his exhausted state. Sherlock on the other hand was silent not from exhaustion, but from his elaborate formation of theories. For him tonight would be a sleepless night at 221B. A night for playing the violin till 3 am, despite John's protests, a night for nicotine patches and cold tea.


	5. Chapter 4: Obsidian Waters

The fog sank low and thick very rapidly, giving the air a biting chill which ran teasingly down John's spine. It wasn't right, like a single sharpened fingernail dragging across his skin. It made him call out into the white void in hope of something comfortable, something familiar, just beyond his reach.

"Hello?" he yelled into the mist. There was no answer.

He heard a sound, faintly, like a trickle. Walking blindly, his bare feet stung as they grazed rough pebbles which lodged into his tender flesh. He winced in pain and was just about to turn back when he felt icy fluid lapping against his toes, numbing their nerves. He looked down at the water at his feet, his frown lines drawing together.

It was black, obsidian black.

He turned around but the path he had taken was enveloped in the fog veil. It seemed that he was being dared to proceed. He felt his breathing shutter in and out of his body. His heart fluttered anxiously. It wasn't right.

The isolation was haunting.

Fear froze him to his place, his feet rooting into the earth. His conscious thought faded out like the light of a train as it traveled farther and farther into the night. His animal instincts took dominance over his mind, making him hyper aware to everything around him, even the malevolent energies which threatened at the brink of unseen things. He could not find a voice to call out again.

It was silent. The only sound was the waves lapping against his ankles and the shore.

He hadn't remembered taking another step but already he seemed deeper in the water. It was as if his body was moving out of tandem with his mind, as if his soul was grounded while his legs moved forward by their own accord. He felt stretched and expanded, compressing with every shaky exhale.

He moved forward again on puppet legs. He panicked quietly as the waterline elevated past his calves and reached his knees. He watched his skin disappear into the black ink.

The doctor's muscles clenched as he determined himself not to move, to stay close to the safety of the rocky shore, but whatever power controlled him would not slacken its grip.

The glassy surface rose again and this time consumed his hips. He trembled all over and grit his teeth to keep the tears of terror from escaping him.

He was chest deep.

His heart pounded in his ears, so strongly it sent ripples through the water. His tremored breaths became deep, wrenching heaves. He let out an unearthly groan from somewhere within, a vulnerable mortal sound, primitive and desperate.

Blackness surrounded him. The fog became ebony, viscose hands, tearing at him from all angles, dragging him into the deep and with them came the faces of decayed corpses, the jaws hanging loose, the eyes gutted out to leave bottomless holes. They screamed through the pressure of the poisonous water, a high pitched animal like cry. The doctor thrashed and clawed at the bodies suffocating him, but as he did, their flesh scraped away like gelatinous putty under his fingernails. He felt his lungs gasp and sputter with their last breath of life. Before the end, he had only the strength to let out a scream of agony into the watery depths, among the screeches of his fellow dead.


	6. Chapter 5: A Body in the Fridge

**Please review and let me know what you think of the story so far! Thank you. I could use the support.**

John woke up soaked in sweat. It took him several minutes to blink away the sleep that lingered in his eyes and clouded his mind. His breathing slowed down to a normal pace after a conscious effort.

"Ah, God. What an awful dream," he mumbled, rubbing his palm across his face. He willed himself to roll over and winced as the light flooding through his bedroom window assaulted his sensitive pupils. He groaned and threw his blanket over his head.

As he clung to the blanket's comfort, a thought occurred to him to stay in that position for the rest of the day, to forget the gaping faces and clawing hands dragging him into the darkness. That thought didn't last long, however, when he heard Sherlock's violin sing a beautiful tune in the room below. The sweep and glide of the pitch soothed him. He could almost imagine Sherlock's long calculated fingers pulling the bow across the strings, feeling the vibrations as he did so. The music began to grow in intensity and he knew his flatmate was most likely moving in that passionate, dance like motion he often does when the music fills him.

_He plays that one when he's happy, or whatever it is that Sherlock feels when he's not brooding. His "theories" music, I suppose._

He felt a gentle smile quirk at the side of his mouth. The next thing he knew, he was padding down the cold wooden stairs towards the source of the solo instrumental. When he reached the bottom floor, he stood in the doorway, watching the consulting detective as he faced the open window and dragged the bow back and forth in delicate angles across the violin, which was only visible against his suit clad shoulder. The song suddenly transitioned to a sweet and tender repose, utterly enchanting. It fluttered up to the ceiling and then slowed down again. Its soft melody settled into the snug room and quietly lost itself in the dust of the morning. Sherlock set the instrument down, the bow in one hand and the violin in the other.

"Goodmorning, John," the man greeted, while still gazing out of the window. John smiled and shook his head.

"Now how-"

"You're never as quiet as you suppose," Sherlock replied to his presumed question, "What was the nightmare about?"

John looked at the back of his head with surprise, unable to understand how Sherlock always seems to know unspoken things about him.

"Before you bother asking I'll explain. Typically it takes you 2 minutes, or less depending if you're running late, to get dressed once you've woken up. This morning you sat on the edge of the bed for a full minute before walking over to the wardrobe. When you did, your footsteps were heavier than usual and you took closer to 5 minutes to get dressed. Once you got to the stairs you leaned against the handrail to steady yourself, something that you never do because it reminds you of when you had your psychosomatic injury. You don't like the dependence, but this morning you needed it because you had a rough night. You got two hours more sleep than your average amount so it's safe to assume you weren't lacking sleep and therefore had a nightmare," Sherlock thought for a moment, "I don't remember you ever having a nightmare before."

John couldn't help but smile gently out of admiration for his friend, who knew as much about him as he knew about himself. It was more than just his normal deductions. He only observed the things he found important, so for some unexplained reason Sherlock found his daily routine significant data to record in his mind. John hadn't even noticed why he avoided handrails or that he avoided them at all, and yet Sherlock sourced the exact reason. John was speechless with amazement.

"Coffee please, John," Sherlock told him while looking at the people navigating the street below.

John blinked, finally coming back to the current moment.

"Oh...yes, of course," he assented distantly, walking into the kitchen to fill the cafetiere with water. The earthy smell of coffee filled the room as it heated. He watched Sherlock set the violin down on the windowsill and plop down in his armchair. He seemed to get lost in thought the longer he sat, mulling over something complex in his mind. John shook away his own thoughts and resolved to find out if the muffins in the fridge were still there from yesterday. He gripped the handle and pulled the door open. He sighed at the contents, and then closed it.

"Sherlock, when did you put this dead body in the fridge?"

"3:00. Or rather it was closer to 3:05," he responded absentmindedly. He eyed the scrabble pieces still littering the carpet, sliding some to the side with his foot. John furrowed his brow and stared at the man. He pointed behind him to the kitchen table, which was cluttered with jars of all sizes, cartons, packages, containers, and loose fruits and vegetables. Everything was pushed to the side to make room for a large microscope and a variety of petri dishes and oddly colored bottles of hard to pronounce substances.

"So did it occur to you at any point that the food you removed needed to be kept cold?" he questioned. Sherlock did not turn around to look at the blond, but instead rapped his fingers against the armrest of the chair, his eyes darting in lost thoughts.

"Ah a perfect time for the mind palace," John mumbled with agitation.

"Well I'm not buying the new groceries," he added assertively. Sherlock continued to rap his fingers against the fabric, his eyes narrowing as he found a particularly interesting train of thought.

"That means you'll have to buy them," John reminded him, "Which means going out in public and, godforbid, interacting with other human beings."

The curly headed man jumped up suddenly, startling John in the process, who was taken aback by how enthusiastic the man was about going to the shops. He leaped from the armchair to the kitchen and flung open the door to the fridge, grinning at the corpse inside with satisfaction. John sighed and gave up on his hopeless cause, deciding to replace the contents of their fridge later that day. In light of his defeat, he considered that he might as well drink the freshly brewed coffee he made for Sherlock and enjoy the comforts of reviewing his case notes in silence.

_Sherlock can continue to do whatever it is he's doing to that poor dead person as long as it doesn't interfere with my own peaceful morning._

He brought his notebook over to one of the armchairs and sat down with his coffee in hand. He flipped through the pages, searching for his most recent notes. When he settled on the page titled, "The Case of the Soap People and the Missing Statue", he began to read off the facts.

_The victims were killed by cyanide poisoning._

_The corpses were tied with jute rope and weighted down in a lake within 18 hours of death._

_They were saponified in the lake for six months._

_The bodies were removed from the water between 24-36 hours before they examined them (between 9am and 9pm the day before the gallery opening)._

_DNA testing must be done by dental samples._

_Theories: The killer was trying to send a message by putting them on display._

John considered the list for a moment. _Sherlock said the biodegradable jute rope is a sign that the killer was inexperienced, yet they knew how to acquire cyanide and more importantly, how to saponify a body. That takes a great deal of knowledge, so perhaps the killer has connections to a coroner or a forensic chemist. _He decided that was a decent theory and recorded it, noting to himself to discuss it with Sherlock later. He moved on to the next set of notes.

_Meredith Dandurant, the art director, seems to be hiding information from us and the public._

_Her main focus is the stolen statue, which is worth a large sum of money._

_The statue in question was approximately 7 meters tall and 450 kilograms._

_She didn't recognise the victims._

_All guests were invited by invite except a certain suspicious person, Bruce Hartford, who is connected to the art industry and had quite a lot of prior knowledge about the artist._

_The artist's name was Leo Christanza. This was the first gallery he's worked with and he's been making this collection for two years. Other galleries have shown an interest in him, including the London Art Museum._

_Theories: Meredith is withholding information. This is a case of insurance fraud and she paid movers to take the statue to another location (unlikely). Whoever moved the statue must have had experience._

John sipped at his coffee and stretched his arms, letting them rest behind his head. The thought occurred to him that Meredith described the uninvited guest, Bruce Hartford, as suspiciously as possible. _Why would she portray him as being so suspicious? _

The idea nagged at John until he decided to do some research. He put his coffee down on the desk, sat up straighter, and pulled open his laptop. He typed "Bruce Hartford" into the search bar and clicked search. He sifted through the irrelevant results, a wide array of facebook accounts and linkedin profiles, eventually realizing the need to narrow down his results further. He added, "art" to the search bar and instantly what he was looking for showed up. The Telegraph had an online article which matched his keywords.

"_Successful London Art Gallery Undergoes Renovations"_

_Bruce Hartford, director of the art gallery, Hartford and Brooke, tells us that the renovations starting Tuesday will last for an indefinite amount of time. _

"_Although we don't know when our doors will reopen, these renovations are necessary for our expansion plans, and when they are finished we know it will better serve our patrons," told reporters after the public announcement. Hartford and Brooke has been one of the highest reviewed art galleries in London for the past 10 years. The renovations scheduled to take place will only improve their ratings. Many will eagerly await their reopening._

John found this bit of information very interesting. The date on the article was from a year prior.

"Hey Sherlock?" he called towards the kitchen. A grunt of response was given.

"I found something interesting here-"

"Working," he interrupted. John knew by his distracted tone that he wasn't intending to be rude but was only absorbed in his current work...whatever it is.

"Alright, i'll tell you later," he told him. He moved on to his next section of notes.

_The security system was interfered with the night before the gallery opening at around 11:43._

_A power outage caused the security to be down for ten minutes until the generator turned on._

_The footprints in the oil outside had their imprinted logos cut off._

_They wore second hand shoes in odd sizes._

_Theories: The person who cut the power must have had experience as an electrician. The art thieves took extra precautions to stay anonymous, showing they are both clever and most likely well trained. They probably have stolen in the past._

John reached an epiphany and was about to search for something else when a soft knock came to the door of the flat. The doctor went to go open it for the unknown visitor, and was surprised to find Molly standing there awkwardly.

"Oh goodmorning Molly. I thought you would be Lestrade with news," he told her, opening the door wider and letting her pass through. She mumbled a thank you and Sherlock scoffed from the kitchen.

"Lestrade never comes over with news. He's the laziest inspector in London. He'd rather call us an exponential number of times than spend 5 minutes to come over and talk to us face to face."

John laughed, "And you wonder why with that attitude?" he asked, shaking his head.

"So why are you here Molly?" John wondered, "Not that we don't like having you here. It's just unusual."

Typically Sherlock couldn't stand spending much time with her because of her "pathetic and uncomfortable unrequited advances" and her "equally pathetic attempts at postmortem humor". But he only looked mildly annoyed as he adjust his microscope and glanced at John fleetingly before returning his gaze to it.

"Sherlock called me over actually, to help with his experiment," she explained, a proud glint visible in her eyes. _That explains how he got a corpse, _John thought to himself.

"We are testing tissue samples," she continued, "Sherlock is trying to create an improved PMI mathematical model that calculates the time of death of saponified corpses, taking into account the various conditional factors."

John looked at her blankly. Obviously her explanation went right over his head.

"For the case?" John asked.

"For a research paper" Sherlock responded.

"He really is a genius for coming up with this idea. I mean saponification isn't very common but when it happens time of death can be difficult to determine and in some cases, impossible. This could have solved so many cold cases!"

"Sounds marvelous..." John said as he poured himself another cup of coffee and began to tune her out. Actually it struck him as odd that Molly was working on an experiment with Sherlock when the bodies had just been transferred to her lab last night.

"How are the autopsies coming along?" he asked over the steam of his coffee cup.

"Oh pretty good! I had a night shift working on it. We finished examining two of them and another team took over this morning. Then Sherlock called me and I brought over the equipment he needed. I suppose I had too much energy to sleep and I figured there was no harm in assisting him in the meantime."

_More likely, you are too dedicated to say no, _he surmised. He noticed the dark circles under her eyes and almost felt upset for the way that Sherlock takes advantage of her feelings for him.

"Well, have fun with your dead body. Let me know when you're finished Sherlock. I have some things about the case I want to talk about with you."

Sherlock responded with another grunt and Molly began unpacking the large bag she brought with her on the kitchen table. As the doctor waited to talk with his partner about the case, he decided to try to relax.

He flipped on the telly and sipped his coffee reverently. He found the channel for the local news and listened to the steady thrum of the newsreader's voice, occasionally interrupted by a comment between Sherlock and Molly about a percentage or measurement, or the classification of a tissue. He glazed over during a boring piece about economics and the dull details relating to a new bill Parliament was currently considering. Then John heard something which caught his attention. He scrambled to turn up the volume and leaned forward to hear better.

"...the high profile guests that attended were horrified when, instead, the ceremony revealed the bodies of 7 women, one of the largest mass murders in a decade. And if that wasn't enough to terrify, the bodies were reportedly "statue like" and similar to the appearance of a bar of soap. Now the case referred to as "the soap people" is gaining widespread attention, and it is even rumored that Internet famous consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, is working with the detective inspector to solve it. Earlier today, the BBC managed to interview some of the attendees of last night's event."

The screen switched to a clip which must have been filmed earlier of the newsreader, and a large man, sitting opposite each other in leather armchairs.

"I'm here with Augustus Weinfeld, son of Frederick Weinfeld, the oil tycoon and tenth richest man in England. what were you doing at the gallery opening last night?"

"I donate to institutions which I believe have cultural merit to the city of London. I recently donated a collection of art to the V &amp; A. Other contributions I've made include the London Library and the British Museum. On a smaller scale I also donate to academies, charities, and art galleries. I was attending last night to see if this was an institute worthy of my contribution."

"Did the event of last night deter you at all from making that decision?" The newsreader questioned. The man hesitated before responding, still formulating his thoughts.

"Well...the event last night was a tragedy. I'm sorry to see it happen and I'm sure the best inspectors in London are on the case now. However there has been so much attention surrounding these murders and the gallery name and I'm afraid I can't associate myself with that type of attention, especially when the assailant has yet to be named."

_Does he think someone at the gallery is involved in the crime? _John questioned. _Is that the kind of allegation Meredith was referring to? Seeing this, I can hardly blame her for wanting to keep all of the information surrounding the case private. _He shook his head at the idea and frowned slightly.

"So you are not contributing to the gallery because you think it will impact your reputation?"

"Precisely."

"Do you think the other contributors and investors will share your view on the matter? What future do you see for the gallery?"

"I can't say what the decisions of another man would be. However I can't imagine that anyone with a known name is taking the gallery into serious consideration anymore, at least until more information about the killer's identity is released. Even then, I still think it will most likely attract the wrong people. The quacks of society, the thrill seekers, and the crime enthusiasts will memorialize it as the site of some modern... Picasso turned Jack the Ripper crime. Its notoriety in the art world will never get its start. "

John couldn't help but think that was incredibly harsh. His sympathies for Ms. Dandurant grew the more he listened to the ridiculous people on the screen, as they ridiculed the gallery and its employees. Finally, past his point of annoyance, he changed the channel to a talk show. He found, to his surprise, that the topic today was in fact the art gallery. Leanne, the show's host was talking with one of the guests that attended the gallery opening the night before. The guest was an older woman, wearing a tacky amount of makeup for her age. She was obviously dressed up for the occasion of being on live TV and was a bit too proud for the tears in her eyes to be believable.

"Thank you for talking with us tonight Barbara. We know how hard it is to talk about traumatic events here and we admire your strength. We support you," the host told her gingerly, taking her hand in hers. The camera zoomed in on the guest as she wiped a tear away.

"Thank you," she whispered emotionally.

"Could you tell the audience and the people at home what happened?"

The emotional woman bent her head to hide her tears and nodded.

"I'll tell you as much as I can remember before... I blacked out. I remember the art gallery director gave a speech and introduced the artist. Then he talked about his art collection for a few minutes. And then they were just about to reveal the statue when…" the woman trailed off, her eyes stuck on something far away. John gave the television a skeptical and censuristic look, watching as the completely ludicrous interview took place in front of him. The host gave the woman a look of pure pity and patted her hand consolingly, which of course the camera zoomed in on.

"Be strong Barbara," she whispered.

"Oh dear lord! C'mon!" John exclaimed, rolling his eyes.

"Then everything got real quiet and still... They were like something from a movie. The skin...it didn't look real. I thought for a brief moment they were statues but they were _looking_ at me with their black eyes, dead eyes. They were bodies! I let out a scream and suddenly everyone was pushing and shoving and crawling over one another. It was awful, awful!" Suddenly the woman broke out in a sob and her over-applied make up smeared across her wrinkled cheeks. They panned a shot of the audience, all of which seemed to eat it up the theatrics. Many of them even had tears in their eyes during the account.

"What do you do after something like that? What can you do?" she asked dramatically. _Do people really fall for this act?_ John wondered.

"Nothing can make up for the horrors I endured. I have nightmares now, and terrible visions of... those dead eyes. The most I can do is take legal action for the emotional damages that the trauma caused."

"The _ignorance!" _Sherlock's biting voice came from right beside John's ear. He jumped from the startling outburst he had not expected. He must have taken a break from his experiment when he noticed the case was on TV, somehow appearing silently on the other side of the couch. Or maybe he wasn't so silent and John was simply unobservant, something Sherlock often claimed.

"It has only been _one night _and she is using nightmares as basis for legal action?" Sherlock questioned incredulously. John agreed entirely. It was completely ridiculous.

"Is emotional damage something you can actually file a case for?" he asked with an astonished laugh.

"If you are a victim of abuse, which is completely unrelated to the witness of a murder scene. And did you notice that earlier the newsreader referred to this case as a "mass murder". How could he possibly know if it was a mass murder? For all that has been so far discovered, it could just as easily be a _serial_ murder. And look at the way the newsreader blatantly lead the witness about no longer financing the gallery! What has happened to the media? They don't even bother hiding their factual fallacies and then there's this! What kind of ignorant people allow themselves to be manipulated by this kind of induced synthetic emotional response?" he scoffed, "They are as bad as Americans. There's no way that show will last. The audience is obviously paid and there's only so many lonely, ignorant, women who will find it believable."

Sherlock heard a sniffle behind him and turned to see Molly embarrassingly wipe her tear stained cheeks, and then shuffle into the kitchen again with her head ducked.

"Of course," he said, unsurprised but critical nevertheless. They watched for a few minutes longer, simply out of amusement, but it quickly became too annoying to handle.

"I prefer Graham Norton. Least his guests have more credit to them," John told him.

"No comparison," Sherlock agreed with absolution.

John decided he had had enough of television for the day. Sherlock went back to work with Molly and the doctor returned to his place in front of his laptop. He glanced at his notes, trying to remember what it was he was intending to research. Finally the memory dawned on him. The art thieves were highly experienced, which meant there are most likely other cases in which they've stolen art for the black market or underground buyers. Although it would take quite a bit of searching, he decided he should find out more about those other cases.

Two hours later, John set a stack of papers on the kitchen table, on top of a group of flesh covered petri dishes. Sherlock looked down at them and then up to John.

"Do I have your attention yet?" John asked with some frustration.

"Yes," Sherlock replied with a sigh of annoyance at the interruption. John nodded at the papers and finally Sherlock picked them up to read them. John stood over him and watched as the consulting detective's brow furrowed while he read through the pages.

"What is it?" Molly asked John, the curiosity winning her over.

"A case description for each place the art thieves have robbed in the past. Apparently they are international," John replied, a bit of his pride showing through at discovering such key information.

"Look John! It's always been the same. The power outage, the few minutes before the generator turns on. Look at the countries, Germany, Italy, America, they have expanded too far," Sherlock exclaimed, standing up urgently, his saponification experiment now in the past.

"What do you mean?"

"Criminals have a margin in which they can thrive and recruit more power and interested black market parties, but when they exceed that margin it becomes dangerous. Too many people know about them by now. All you need is to find one person to topple their whole organization," Sherlock paced, his eyes staring at John eagerly. John was confused however and could not follow his train of thought.

"So we find someone from the inside to tell us?..."

"They might not have to be from the inside," Sherlock explained, "They could be anyone in that industry, anyone who has at one point reached out to that group, or someone that the group has had as a connection!"

"So?..." John asked, hoping Sherlock would just get on with telling him what their next plan is.

"The homeless network John."


	7. Chapter 6: Chasing Shadows

**Author's Note: Thank you reviewers for your kind words and constructive advice! It means a lot to me to know you are still reading :) I'm hoping for this to become a pretty long and complex story, so knowing I have support in the beginning really motivates me to push through. Go to the Author's Note at the bottom to read my direct responses to your comments. Lot's of love!**

**Estella Jean**

* * *

They were once again stumbling around in the darkness of underground London. The cobblestones beneath their feet were slick, and treacherous if they did not watch their footing. The torch Sherlock carried was the only available light source. It sent a white ray across the tunneled walls, and annoyed the sleeping people who huddled in the corners underneath layers of mismatching clothing. It was many degrees cooler in these underground caverns than on the surface. The air was thick, centuries preserved into stagnant moisture. The smell of sewer and mildew assaulted their senses, causing the pair to cover their noses. For a while they navigated the tunnels in silence except for the clatter of their damp footsteps. Strangely, John didn't feel uneasy walking the dark musty tunnels. In fact, he might even describe it as comforting. He sensed the presence of his friend beside him. He sensed the heat Sherlock radiated, and even with the smells of the tunnels, he could pick up on his faint aroma of tea, tobacco, and smoky licorice cologne. It was almost as if they were home in 221B still. The elements of danger and the unknown were the only things to differentiate the two in his mind. John looked over at Sherlock and noticed the way the torch glowed in his eyes and cast shadows across his cheekbones.

_Him and his silly cheekbones _he thought with a gentle half smile.

Sherlock caught John staring at him in his peripheral vision. He gave the blonde a questioning look and John cleared his throat and searched to find something to say.

"Who are we looking for?" he asked to break the ice. Sherlock accepted the conversation without suspicion.

"A man who used to be a hacker. He worked with the internet black market to create fake auction profiles for stolen goods, faking users and reputability. I've worked with him a few times."

"You worked with a criminal?" John asked incredulously.

"Well he was reformed...until he got back into the business. He was recently discovered by police, which is why he's in hiding. We're getting close!" Sherlock explained. He turned off the light and they walked blindly in the surrounding darkness until their eyes adjusted.

"And what makes you so sure he's going to want to talk to you?" John questioned.

"He won't," Sherlock replied, "Did you bring your gun?"

"Yes," he replied casually. Less than three steps later he realized.

"Oh no. No. You better not be asking me to shoot someone before I've even had my breakfast. Sherlock, I'm not going to let this be one of _those_ days," he stated indignantly.

"One of what days? Never mind. Give me the gun then," Sherlock commanded with his palm outstretched to receive it.

"But you're a lousy shot. And if my life is going to depend-"

"A lousy shot!" Sherlock interrupted, repeating the words with bitterness to mask his hurt pride.

He stopped walking abruptly. His face contorted into an affronted expression and he eyed John with confusion. John sighed and looked to the ground.

"Fine I'll keep the gun. Let's not do this right now okay? We have some cybercriminal friend of yours to find. Which way?" He asked gesturing to the corridor on the right as if to question if it was the one to take. Of course, Sherlock ignored him, still focused on his previous statement.

"A lousy shot? Granted I might not have military training but statistically speaking I'm nearly the average of an authorized firearm officer regarding a target range of 10-30 meters," he bragged. John glazed over his words, hoping he would feel satisfied with his point soon so they could move on to bigger priorities.

"Is that so?" the doctor indulged him, realizing he wasn't going to continue until the discussion had been settled.

"I would say that for a private citizen with typically no access to handguns that is rather impressive, don't you? I mean look at Lestrade. He might have a badge and an official title and even a host of mindless servants like Donovan and Anderson following him around, but do you think he can shoot for the life of him?" Sherlock asked John heatedly.

"Um..." John awkwardly attempted to respond.

"Of course not. The first and hopefully only time he's ever picked up a gun he shot me in the shoulder."

"Are you serious? Lestrade shot you?" John asked in complete disbelief of the unexpected information.

Sherlock seemed to relax now that he had proved his point and began to stroll further down the tunnel again, John by his side as always.

"Yes," he replied smoothly and succinctly.

"...Intentionally?" He wondered. Sherlock gave him a ridiculous look.

"No of course not intentionally!"

"Are you sure?" John questioned with a tinge of humor in his voice. "You know you can be quite an arse sometimes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "He's over it by now I'm sure."

There was a pause as John waited for Sherlock to elaborate, watching their strides fall into synchronization, but after a full minute he realized it wouldn't happen without some form of prompting. A focused look graced the consulting detective's features as he sorted out an important internal thought.

"Well?" John broke him from his train of concentration.

"Hm?" He hummed in confusion, his eyebrows furrowing at the shorter man.

"Tell me the story. About how Lestrade shot you. You didn't tell me anything."

"Oh that. Lestrade's wife had just cheated on him for the first time. He hadn't mentioned it, but of course I knew the signs. We were finishing up with a double homicide case and he asked me if I would like to go get a drink with him. I then knew it must be a desperate situation."

"Clearly," John inputted with a laugh, finding it hard to imagine anyone going to Sherlock for emotional comfort.

"I told him I wasn't interested in alcohol. The last thing I wanted was for him to get drunk and tell me his life story, utterly dull, so I tried to imagine what kind of things I would do if I suffered such inconsequential human emotions that wouldn't be entirely mundane in practice. I would either play the violin, or act on a violent whim, but since Lestrade doesn't play the violin it narrowed down the options to one. Lestrade has never shot a gun before, never experienced the invigorating feeling it leaves, the power it gives one, you understand John," he paused.

"Yes definitely," John agreed with a nod, thinking of the military gun in his pocket.

"And Lestrade wasn't going to break the law by shooting the wall of our flat with an illegally acquired handgun, my ex landlady would have protested the point anyways, so I had to find a way that would satisfy Lestrade's oh so moral conscience. Mycroft has a collection of antique guns which precede the Firearms Act. In a rare moment of complete stupidity on my part, Lestrade and I paid a visit to Mycroft. I honestly didn't expect him to be that embarrassingly incapable, good god John, he was awful. He's worse at shooting targets than he is at solving a case."

John laughed at the scenario, finding it funnier that Sherlock actually attempted to cheer up the inspector, and in doing so, went to Mycroft of all people, than the fact the man shot him accidentally. The Holmes brothers weren't particularly experienced with human emotion. And Lestrade wasn't particularly experienced at anything. It would be like watching them try to babysit a child.

John laughed even louder at the thought. Sherlock felt a smile quirk at the edge of his mouth and began laughing as well at the memory, the sound echoing against the enclosed stone walls. It was one of those moments when one another's presence became a contagious rebound of energy. John always remembered moments like this, and surprisingly so did Sherlock, even though for him, most memories were often "deleted" for being unessential and impractical. Sure he deleted some memories with John, but typically they were memories about needing to pick something up from the shops, or John's plans to go out on his day off. John referred to this as his "selective memory". But memories like these ones, he kept despite the fact that they had no practical or applicable value, unlike the rest of his "undeletable information" reserve, and the recollection of such bonding moments always came at the strangest of times. Usually they imprinted themselves in his conscious when he woke up in the morning, when John was working late at the hospital, or when they walked side by side in comfortable and familiar silence. The consulting detective slowed down his laughter to breathe again.

"It was painful but at least it was worth it," he chuckled, "Lestrade felt so bad he never even thought about the infidelity in his marriage. And the next three cases I assisted with, he gave me complete control of which was quite advantageous for me."

John was entertained by the absurdity of the situation and the image of the event which formulated in his mind. He imagined Lestrade's panicked expression as he realized what he'd done or Mycroft rolling his eyes in the background, leaning on his umbrella as it all unfolded. Despite this amusement, he was dearly thankful that the bullet had not hit his friend in a more vital area. If it had, he wouldn't be in that dark musty tunnel, tracking down a criminal with his pulse racing and the most interesting man he has ever met by his side. No, if that bullet had struck Sherlock through the heart, John would be sitting on the edge of a plain bed in a plain flat, with a blank screen in front of him, and no words with which to write the story of his plain life. Except for his crutch, he would be alone. There wasn't a day that went by when he took that for granted.

_It's strange to think someone so aggravating could be so necessary to me. Or even more strange, that I could be so necessary to him. What bizarre friends we make._

They fell into silence again as Sherlock return to his previous thoughts, which John could only guess were case related. When the doctor's eyes adjusted to the dark, he began to see Sherlock's outline fill in with more detail. He could point out specific curls and the edge of his turned up coat collar. He wondered what Sherlock could see in this darkness. With the extensive training of his senses and his state of alert, it wouldn't surprise the doctor if the man was unaffected by the lack of light. What he couldn't see with his eyes he could probably still calculate with his ears, his nose, and the sensitivity of his skin.

The man in question stopped short.

"Shh!" He hushed insistently, stretching his arm out to stop John from continuing. He pushed his back against the damp wall of the tunnel and he hit the stone with a painful thud. The doctor looked confused.

"But I wasn't talking-" he whispered.

"You were thinking. It was interfering with my thinking," the consulting detective growled.

"How does that even work?" John asked of the man's incredulous thought process. Sherlock sighed with aggravation.

"When you're on a plane, you have to turn off mobile devices because the wavelengths they emit interfere with the plane's communication controls," he eagerly stated. John furrowed his brows.

"Yes..."

"You're the mobile device!" Sherlock whispered severely. John pushed Sherlock's arm away from his chest in an attempt to restore his dignity.

"Well, you can't turn me off," He stated firmly.

"Shh!" Sherlock insisted again, his back still pressed against the wall, gazing at something far away in the dark.

"What? What is it?" John asked, holding his breath in, his heart pumping quickly. His felt his fingers instinctively reach into his coat pocket and curl around the trigger of his gun. He suspected the man they were looking for was close at hand. Sherlock closed his eyes and began to gesture with his hands as if he was tracing his steps with them. He mumbled to himself as he did so.

"Two down, 1 to the right, two to the left, 3 down. Pass the station at Winchester road and Eton Avenue..."

Suddenly he opened his eyes and turned to John.

"He should be in the tunnel to the left," he concluded. John rolled his eyes and peeled himself away from the wall.

"Well, what was all that then?" John pointed to the wall. Sherlock looked at the wall and then back to him with confusion.

"You shoved me into a _wall. _Let me guess, I was in the way of your wavelength emission or something.

"Don't be ridiculous John. People don't have wavelength emissions. Unless you're referring to sound or heat waves. In which case-"

"Let's just...get on with it. Before I threaten the wrong person," he interrupted with a heavy sigh of annoyance, and all previous thoughts about the gratefulness of their friendship were temporarily forgot.

"Right," Sherlock agreed. The men took a few deep breaths, the tension inside building as their adrenaline levels increased. Sherlock clenched and relaxed the muscles in his hands, a trick he learned increased circulation and calmed the nerves. They sucked in a final breath and peeked around the corner. Partway down the long corridor there was a dark figure sitting with his back against the wall. John glanced to his partner for confirmation and he gave a brief nod in response. Sherlock and the doctor shared a look to communicate without words.

_5_

John's hand clenched around the gun, he felt the coolness of the metal sink into his skin.

_4_

Sherlock calculated the possible outcomes of the actions about to occur, and the probability of their success.

_3_

John felt his heartbeat pounding through his veins and steadied his breathing.

_2_

Sherlock slowed down his mind and prepared his body for the chase.

_1_

They ran into action.

John was on the right with Sherlock to his left. They dodged towards the dark figure, feeling their feet hit the solid stone beneath them, splashing rotten water in their wake, and reflecting echoes off the walls. The shadow man suddenly animated, they could barely see his outline as he leaped up and dashed down the tunnel.

"Stop!" Sherlock shouted, despite knowing it was purposeless. He flicked the torch on as he ran, bouncing streams of light into the darkness haphazardly. Their bodies throbbed as they pushed them to go faster yet, their muscles giving way to their commands. John balanced his arm in front of him, aiming as best as he could while moving at such a fast pace, he took a breath and his finger squeezed the trigger. The sound of his warning shot tore through the tunnel and ripped apart their eardrums with its echoes, leaving them numb and buzzing in the aftermath. The subject of their chase covered his head with his arms and continued to gain distance between himself and his assailants. He turned down a side tunnel.

The two partners glanced at one another, eyes burning with aggressive energy and determination. They doubled their speed with unrestrained effort, veering violently down the side tunnel where the man escaped.

The beat of their hearts matched the slapping of their feet against the ground. The space between them and the man decreased. He looked behind his shoulder at them to gage their distance and in doing so tripped on an unlevel cobblestone. He cried out in pain as he hit the ground but scrambled to get up and limped quickly into the darkness. They were very close now, The man in front of them was no longer an outline, but a complete image of a person. John could see the beads of sweat on the back of his neck from exertion and fear. John stopped and this time when he held the gun up, he aimed to hit his target.

"Stop or I _will_ shoot," he threatened with absolute conviction in his voice. The criminal finally collapsed to the ground in a combination of pain, exhaustion, and surrender. He gasped for air through struggling lungs. Sherlock and John also made an effort to catch their breaths but John never moved the position of his gun. The doctor took this time to truly look at the subject of their chase for the first time. The gasping man was in his mid to late thirties, wearing layers of dark, thick clothing, concealed under an oversized gray winter coat. His skin was oily and his facial hair had grown out into an uneven beard. Clearly he had been in the underground for several months, judging by his appearance and his stench. His narrow eyes squinted in the accusatory light glaring from Sherlock's torch.

"Ah, Sherlock. How've you been?" he rasped. Sherlock looked down at the man smugly. His usual poise had been revived from the chase. He straightened his signature overcoat before replying.

"Good, Davidsen. And that's a suitable look on you, the beard and the rummaged charity shop clothes. Regrettably, the men back at Scotland yard believe you'd look more suitable in handcuffs."

The man squinted back at him, wincing at the grim idea of prison.

"Is that where I'm going?" he asked, attempting to manage his fear and to accept his fate.

"Hm," Sherlock hummed, looking away in thought, "Well that's up to you," he replied.

The man sighed and rubbed a dirty hand across his downcast face, judging his options before responding.

"What do I need to do?" he asked finally.

Sherlock grinned with satisfaction

…

By the time the partners and the hacker had reached Speedy's cafe it was nearly noon, despite the convenience that the underground provided against traffic. The consulting detective had directed them down the incorrect tunnel and once on the surface, they realized they were several streets away from their destination. Sherlock blamed this on a blocked off tunnel of course, stating there was no way around it. John knew by his tone that it was a flat out lie but nodded regardless, knowing how much the arrogant git hated being wrong.

So here they were finally, sitting in a corner table where they would remain unnoticed for the sake of Davidsen's temporary freedom.

Sherlock refused food, as he often does, claiming it slows his mental capabilities to theorize during a case. Instead, he sat with his elbows on the table and his hands steepled, observing the other two men as they ate their lunch.

Davidsen ate his sandwich with desperate vigor, clearly making up for the starvation he suffered while in hiding. He was sloppy, not caring when half of the meat in his sandwich fell out the other end. There was no tact or strategy with how he ate. Sometimes he would take a bite from one end, other times taking a bite from the middle for some unexplained reason. There were moments when he would pause to pick up his dropped fillings and eat them separately with greasy eager fingers, and then return to the rest of the sandwich.

John, on the other hand, was hungry but restrained, with a sense of care and method. He cut his breakfast of fried egg on toast in a particular way.

_He cuts three bites, crookedly I might add, and then eats two. He cuts the next three and so on, so that the number of bites on his plate always increases by one each time. How strange. The etiquette is to cut a single piece one at a time so that there is never food previously cut on your plate but obviously he isn't following a form of etiquette. What is this strange habit? When did it formulate? John is filled with so many small mysteries. It's almost mesmerizing._

The doctor looked up from his plate to see Sherlock staring at him scientifically and felt self-conscious immediately.

"What?" he asked, setting down his utensils. Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

"Nothing, continue," he told him. Although uncomfortable, John shook the feeling away and did as Sherlock said, too hungry to care he was being watched. Davidsen finished the end of his sandwich with one giant bite. He looked from Sherlock to John, and John to Sherlock, as he chewed thoughtfully. When finally he had swallowed the last bite, he spoke.

"So this is your partner, eh Sherlock?" he asked the focused man.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied without tearing his eyes from John.

"Yeah I recognise him from the papers. He's always right next to you in all the headliner photos. Even the one with the hat."

Sherlock scoffed, "I do _not_ want to talk about the hat," he said sternly, internally cursing the newspaper reporters for his idolized image. John laughed a little at what was quite possibly the only thing which made Sherlock visibly uncomfortable.

"Hm," Davidsen hummed, in consideration.

"You know…" the hacker started, "I never would have pegged you for a romantic man, but seeing you two together... it's strange, but I can understand it. It seems to click."

John stopped midway from swallowing a bite of food and nearly choked. He coughed and shook his head simultaneously.

"No-" he rasped and coughed again before he could finish. Sherlock shifted awkwardly in his seat, disproving John's previous assumption that the hat was the only thing to make him visibly squirm.

"Well, I'm afraid… I mean that's not really… we're not really-" he attempted, stumbling over his words, but was cut off by the ringing of his mobile phone. He looked to John, who had finished gaining control of his lungs. John knew what he was asking for and rolled his eyes. He reached across the table and took the mobile phone from Sherlock's right overcoat pocket.

"Hello," John greeted with an annoyed voice.

"It's Donovan. We are with a city electrician right now. He's examining the underground electrical station connected to the art gallery," she told him.

"Oh okay. Keep us updated," John said and looked to Sherlock.

"They are talking with the electrician," he relayed. Sherlock's interest peaked and he gestured to the doctor to give him the phone. John handed it over but soon after realized he should have mentioned Sgt. Donovan was on the other end.

…

Meanwhile, across town, the detective inspector spoke with an electrician from the London electric company. Above them, the sky darkened overhead with greying clouds, bringing an ominous energy to the atmosphere. The threat of rain was nearing. Lestrade hoped they would be finished by the time the downpour came upon them.

"Yeah it's been turned off alright," the lanky electrician said as he ascended from the underground electrical station.

"Turned off, not vandalized?" Lestrade clarified. The electrician took off his glasses and returned them to his shirt pocket, then nodded to the inspector's question.

"Yes, someone who has worked for city electrics most likely. An electrician in a rural area wouldn't know how to deal with these distribution lines."

"But they broke the padlock on the grate," Lestrade mumbled, bending down to examine the smooth cut, _They must have used a lock cutter, _he observed.

"Do you happen to have records of all the employees that have recently resigned or been let go of?"

"Oh yes we do. The management office would be able to help you. I have the number," the man said as he fished around his pocket for his mobile.

"That would be great!" Lestrade said and the two men exchanged the number. While they did so Sally explained the situation over the phone.

"Lestrade talked with the electrician. He said it must have been an employee who works in the city. They broke into the station and turned off the power. They used a lock cutter to cut the padlock," she explained. There was a sound of disgust through the phone.

"Ugh, Donovan?" Sherlock spat with distaste.

"Freak? What happened to John?" Donovan asked with as much revulsion in her voice.

"What happened to Lestrade? Give him the phone at once. I'm sure you missed vital information. You always miss the most important points," he commanded aggravatingly.

"He's busy," she replied shortly, "Give the phone to John."

Frustrated, Sherlock huffed and struck his hand toward John to take the phone. John rolled his eyes and took the phone back to talk to Donovan.

"What's up?" John asked with a sigh. Donovan relaxed when she heard his voice replace the consulting detective's

"Tell the freak that the electrician told Lestrade that the person who broke into the electrical station works for city electrics but because he didn't have a key to the station and used a lock cutter, Lestrade figures it was someone who recently resigned or has been let go. So the electrician is giving Lestrade the number for the management office so we can access the records," she told him in one long string of words.

John was confused, but after a minute, he sorted out the information in his mind and repeated it to Sherlock. He couldn't help but think Sherlock created a very ironic situation. It seemed like a game of telephone rather than a serious investigation. But that was nothing new, he always treated their investigations like games.

"Ask her what the number was," Sherlock ordered his friend. John did as he said, accustom to being ordered by then.

"What's the number Sally?" he questioned. The woman read them off as John recorded them on a cafe napkin. He thanked her and they ended the call.

"What next Sherlock?" John inquired. The consulting detective mulled thoughts over in his mind, then looked towards Davidsen who had been sitting quietly the entire time. He dragged his chair over to the man, until he was positioned directly in front of him. He rested his chin on his clasped hands and stared at the scruffy looking man critically.

"We need to get down to business Davidsen. We need inside information about your network," Sherlock told him bluntly.

He could sense the hacker considering this with fear, knowing the consequences this could bring him.

"I don't think I need to remind you what happens to you if you don't," Sherlock threatened. The man averted his gaze and nodded, deciding nothing was worse than prison.

"What do you need to know specifically Sherlock?" he asked with defeat. Sherlock glanced to John and John understood. The doctor set a folder on the table and pushed it towards the two men. Sherlock nodded to it and Davidsen picked it up, flipping through it carefully.

"What do you know about them? Have you heard anything about them? Even a whisper. Have you had any contact at all?" the consulting detective pushed. The hacker thought about it for a moment before responding.

"Yes...anonymously. I had one of them reach out to me for information."

"Information? What kind?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"He wanted to know if there was a way to hack into an art gallery in Germany. From the outside. I told him no. The only thing I could think of was creating a device that could jam the system, but obviously that isn't my area."

Sherlock nodded for him to continue, knowing that wasn't all.

"He asked if turning off the main power would cause the system to go down and I told him yes, but only temporarily."

"When was this?" Sherlock interrupted. The man paused to think.

"It was...three years ago I think. Roughly."

"How did he contact you?"

"Same way as always. Private chat room."

"Can you still trace that account?" Sherlock asked eagerly.

"From three years ago? Are you kidding?" Davidsen laughed. It was evident from Sherlock's expression he was dead serious. Davidsen sighed and ran a palm across his face at the idea.

"I can't guarantee it. But I suppose...yeah I suppose it's possible," he admitted. Sherlock seemed satisfied with that answer. He unclasped his hands and stood up, pushing the chair back as he did so.

"Where are we going?" John asked with confusion. Sherlock looked to him and then Davidsen.

"Scotland Yard," he said. The cyber criminal look up at him with horror and betrayal.

"We have some hacking to do," Sherlock told him.

* * *

**Author's Note to the reviewers:**

Cliapatra32

Thank you! But I can't take credit. My lovely girlfriend and editor came up with that one :P she's creative like that.

abutterflymind

You are just wonderful for helping me make my story more genuine! I knew nothing of British culture until you gave me a little guidance. I'm glad I'm not just winging it anymore and I have more accuracy involved. After all, Sherlock takes place in England and it's only respectful that I stay accurate to that culture! Hopefully now my British readers won't shudder at my "Americanisms" :P


	8. Chapter 7: A Dangerous Game

**Please review lovely people!**

**Estella Jean **

* * *

The partners and the criminal stepped into the first empty cab that approached Baker Street. The three got uncomfortably situated in the back, shoulder to shoulder, while Sherlock told the cabbie the address to Scotland Yard. They were thankful for the shelter because overhead the sky was threatening to open its floodgates at any moment. A state of peace before chaos arrested the clouds.

Something about their restraint, their tempt to teeter dangerously close to the edge, reminded John of a particular song Sherlock plays with his violin on stormy days. Suddenly the melody made sense to him. It was balanced yet escalating, full of potential, and then suddenly broke loose in array of vicious but beautifully intense notes. It thrilled him to play it, in the same way crime solving thrilled him, as if he was chasing some great mystery. To John though, it was just soothing to watch the sky transform to a darker shade and for the rain to flow down in a soft low roar.

"I hope it rains," Sherlock said with a small smile lingering on his lips. John nodded and smiled as well in understanding. Davidsen on the other hand, did not understand. He looked at the curly headed man as if he were insane.

"You're crazy," Davidsen shook his head and wrapped his disgusting gray coat around himself to lock in the warmth.

They rode down the London streets, watching the sky closely through the cab windows. John and Sherlock tried their best not to suffocate from the body odor coming from Davidsen, which was difficult considering their close proximity.

The men were nearly silent, except for their gentle breathing patterns. The consulting detective tried to match his breathing to the rise and fall of John's chest. Something about filling his lungs with the air the doctor expelled and lending air for him to inhale seemed intimate in a way that was too tender, almost like sharing a life force. He tried his best to synchronize with him so it would cease from happening, at least that's what he told himself, yet he didn't entirely mind when his rhythm and timing were slightly off, and he ended up breathing in the smell of ginger and hazelnut which lingered on the other man's lips. It was such a strong contrast to Davidsen's stench that his senses were momentarily disoriented.

"Stop," he blurted out to the cabbie. The driver immediately followed the command and pulled up to the curb. John gave Sherlock a questioning look.

"Get out," Sherlock told him plainly.

"What?" his partner asked, confused by the sudden change of plans.

Sherlock repeated himself without further elaboration. John tentatively did what he said and opened the cab door. When his feet hit the ground, Sherlock explained further instructions.

"The city electrics management office is down two streets. Find the electrician," He ordered.

Then John watched as the cab pulled away and left him standing on the pavement. It began to rain finally.

John looked up at the sky and swore at whatever force caused his misfortune, be it God, be it chance, be it karma from a past life, but mostly he directed his frustrations at the man he called his best friend. While he walked towards the general direction Sherlock had pointed to, he grumbled to himself about the man's inconsideration towards him, which he really should come to expect by now.

By the time his wandering led him to the management office, the rain had soaked his jumper and parts of his checked shirt as well. The wind had picked up and sent sheets of slanted water to drench him and to chill him to his core. He slipped quickly into the double doors of the building for protection. He stopped in the foyer to catch his breath and warm up, wiping his damp face with his damp arm sleeves, although the action had no effect, but he was interrupted by a female voice.

"Can I help you?" A jovial looking middle aged woman asked from behind the main desk. He regained his motivation and walked over to talk to her, deciding he had to make his trek through the storm worth something at least. She looked up at him quizzically through a pair of over-sized glasses.

"Um yes, I need to see your records of past employees," he told her uncertainly. He knew that's what he was basically supposed to do from what Sherlock had said.

"_Find the electrician."_

But how he was supposed to go about doing that, he had no clue.

The woman looked at him with surprise and a little bit of wariness. John realized without some kind of intervention from Lestrade, he really wasn't in the position to ask for something like that. He considered just leaving and taking a cab back to the flat but he remembered the storm outside and shivered at the thought. Luckily the woman's expression changed into a look of recognition.

"You're that one bloke...Sherlock Holmes's assistant. I see you in the papers. In the back of the photos."

"Partner," he corrected, "but yes that's me. Watson."

He smiled courteously. She smiled in return, then became excited.

"Oh you're working on that gallery case! I heard it on the news. An awful thing that. Seven people."

John realized his luck had not run out and decided he could find a way to spin this in his favor.

"Yes, quite awful. We can't release any information to the public yet...but just between you and me, these records could identify the thief that stole the statue," he told her in a lowered, confidential tone. She visibly beamed at the thought and John knew he had her.

"Oh well I'd love to be of assistance! Just follow me and I'll show you to the records database."

The woman led John out of the foyer and down a cramped hallway where he could smell tuna and donuts. Clearly the break room was nearby. At the end of the hallway he came to a room with a few computers in it and she gestured for him to sit down at one of them.

"It's all automated now. Silly thing, I don't know what I'm doing half the time. I was great with files though," she laughed and leaned over his shoulder to use the mouse. She clicked into a program and logged in, then instructed him on how to navigate the database.

"You have to know what you are looking for. You can't search for anything except a name or a location. But you can add filters to reduce your results as much as possible with these bars over here. It's a bit touchy sometimes. Sometimes when you put a filter on, when the page refreshes it reverts back," she explained.

John nodded in understanding.

"Alright then, thank you for your help," he told her with a smile. She waved her hand to indicate it wasn't a big deal.

"Of course. Now you tell me if there is anything else you need dear. I'll be down the hall. There are donuts in the break room if you want," she told him before disappearing through the doorway. As soon as she left, John set to work.

_Think like Sherlock_, he told himself. The thought of the man irritated him. He probably wasn't intending on John finding anything at all. He was probably just getting rid of him for who knows what reason. It wouldn't surprise him.

_Well, I'm going to prove to him I can be valuable dammit!, _the doctor resolved with conviction.

He rested his elbows on the counter and put his chin in his hands, staring at the white screen and formulating a plan.

_Sherlock would create a basic criminal profile. What kind of man are we looking for? _

_Well a man doesn't just become a high level criminal. He develops into one over time. I'm looking for a man with a criminal history. _

He added that into the filters_, _narrowing down the results to employees with a criminal history. This didn't eliminate as many results as he would have thought. Even men with a mild criminal record were included. Then an obvious thing popped into his head.

_Oh yes of course! It is a past employee. _

He adds that to the filters.

_But he's also probably not a retiree. Too old. Nor an employee that is deceased or on an injury leave._

He narrowed it down further. And noticed the results were considerably shortened but still too vast to sift through.

_What else could I narrow down... _He wondered.

_Location? No, because he might not have worked in the area of the gallery, surely the electrical stations don't differ that dramatically from one another around the city. What about motive? Let's see... What would cause someone to leave their job working for the city and become a criminal working for a black market heist? Maybe it was someone with financial issues, looking for a job that pays more, in which case he would have quit. Or maybe it was rage resulting from being fired and then being desperate for money. If someone was fired, the desperation for money would have been greater than someone who gradually comes to financial issues, at least if it was gradual they would still have a reliable income to depend on. So this person was most likely fired. Fired, desperate, angry, and with a criminal history. This sets it up nicely._

He added _dismissal_, as reason for ending the employment. The results were narrowed down to a single employee profile. He clicked to read it. _Bingo. _

Four months ago a man who had a criminal history of physical and verbal altercations, and one count of breaking and entering, was fired for getting in heated arguments with fellow employees which led to him pulling a knife. He was fired, had a police report filed against him, and left on bad terms.

_He's definitely not lacking in motivation_, John thought. He clicked the print icon and the sound of the printer whirred to life. _I better pay a visit to this man_, he decided, as he read the report over again. At that moment his phone vibrated with a text. He pulled it out of his pocket and opened the message.

_Just finished corpse number 7! All the same COD, potassium cyanide poisoning :) We are running the DNA analysis and should have it sent to Lestrade by the end of the day._

_-MH_

He shook his head, thinking to himself that only Molly Hooper would send smiley emojis and exclamation points in a message about coroner reports, but he did take note that the bodies would be identified soon. This made finding the statue an even more pressing need, because the thieves would most likely sell it as soon as possible, but once the victims are identified the murders will take priority. _If the statue isn't found by today it might not ever be_, John pondered with concern, thinking of Meredith.

_I better see to this electrician right away then._

**...**

At Scotland Yard, Sherlock and Davidsen had just paid the cabbie and prepared to enter the building. They were walking up the steps when Davidsen tugged on Sherlock's coat sleeve. Sherlock spun around, startled by the action.

"Sherlock what are we doing? I can't just go in there! I'm a wanted man."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed in response.

"They don't have your face commited to memory. They aren't that capable. Just stay by me, act casual, and go along with anything I might say."

Then the consulting detective walked straight into the building as if he were walking into his own flat. The man had a way of doing that, pretending he owned any building he walked into, pretending he had more of a right to be there than anyone else. It was an extreme level of arrogance, but luckily the people at Scotland Yard had become accustom to it, and perhaps after all of his assistance, they themselves believed it to be true. That didn't mean however, that they didn't despise him. They all did. Simply walking down the hallway caused many passing employees, with badges or lab coats that identified their designated specialization, to send nasty looks his way.

"Always so great at making friends, eh Sherlock?" Davidsen snickered which resulting in an irritated and unamused expression from the consulting detective.

"Don't forget I can have you arrested," Sherlock told him threateningly and the man shut up quickly.

They arrived at a doorway to a dark room and here they entered. Directly in front of them, was a desk which an old man sat at, reading by the yellow light of the desk lamp. Beyond him were rows of wide shelving units, each shelf labeled with categories and each box labeled further. When the evidence keeper heard them enter, he looked up to greet them and set his book down.

"Hello, Sherlock, how can I help you?" he asked quite cheerily, which surprised Davidsen.

_Apparently he does have a friend here,_ he thought.

Sherlock didn't smile but he seemed more at ease than he was in the hallway. He trusted the old man.

"We are looking for some evidence relating to a hacker the detective inspector is looking for. We suspect he is involved in this art gallery case. I believe the man's name is Davidsen, and his possessions were confiscated two months ago," Sherlock told him.

A look of familiarity came over the man's features.

"I remember documenting that. They brought in whole boxes filled with computer parts. I can go find them for you but you might need to help me reach them."

Sherlock nodded in agreement and he and Davidsen followed him down the rows.

"Who's your friend?" the man asked as they walked. Sherlock didn't even blink in hesitation as he answered swiftly.

"One of my homeless network, he is quite talented when it comes to computers. We think he might be able to find out more information regarding the hacker's location," he responded.

Davidsen nodded a bit too fervently in agreement, which caused Sherlock to roll his eyes. The criminal clearly didn't understand how to be discreet, which was most likely how he was caught in the first place.

The evidence keeper stopped at a unit and pointed up towards the top of the shelf.

"Those are the ones," he said. Sherlock, who was much stronger and taller than the old man, retrieved the boxes, one by one, from the high shelf.

"Where are you going to set it up?" the old man asked. Sherlock surveyed the area, realizing they probably couldn't leave with the boxes and not be questioned, but perhaps they could find an appropriate place to set up the computer in that very room.

"Do you have a place here?" Sherlock asked. The man nodded and motioned for them to follow him again.

It took some time for Davidsen to get everything ready and working. The evidence keeper had found a desk for them to use, located in front of one of the windows, which looked out over the gloomy street below. When Davidsen finally got the computer turned on, he went straight into the work of tracking IP addresses from the private chat room.

"Dammit," he swore as he typed. Sherlock leaned over the desk to look at the screen.

"What?" he asked with concern, yet found it to be surprisingly out of his bounds, unable to decipher the screen of numbers.

"87. I've conversed with 87 IP addresses from that time span. It's going to take me hours to find the one connected with the group you're looking for," he said with exasperation, running his hands through his hair.

"If at all," he added. Sherlock knew they had to figure this out before then. He had known, as soon as he heard the statue was stolen, that it would be sold within 24 hours. The black market gets rid of things as fast as it can get it. The longer it's in storage, the higher the risk it possess to them. They were running out of time.

"Davidsen, find it," Sherlock said with finality. He looked at the man with unyielding blue eyes. Davidsen knew not to oppose them. He nodded slowly, understanding it wasn't optional.

"Right," he agreed and began the long task of sifting through information.

Minutes later, Sherlock paced behind him, becoming restless very quickly with the arduousness of the task.

"You might as well relax, Sherlock, this is going to take while," Davidsen told him. Sherlock stopped pacing and stood directly behind his chair, bending over his shoulder to stare at the screen while the man typed. Davisen snickered.

"That's not relaxing, Sherlock," the hacker reminded him absentmindedly as he worked, "Sit down. Take a deep breath. Tell me about your life, like normal friends do."

Sherlock huffed and surrendered to the chair beside the hacker but then scoffed as he realized what he had said.

"Tell you about my life?" he spoke as if it were ridiculous, yet he did not deny the term 'friends' being applied in relation to them. Davidsen smiled at his response. He hadn't known the consulting detective well, but he had known him long enough to understand he wasn't as "sociopathic" as he pretended. He did have a heart.

"Yeah," Davidsen responded, "Tell me about John."

Sherlock looked at him with confusion but his face turned just a tinge darker.

"What about John?" he spat.

_Well that's a tender subject_, Davidsen thought, biting his lip to prevent laughing at Sherlock's unknown transparency.

"Well, how'd you two meet?" Davidsen asked innocently. Sherlock seemed more at ease at the question, settling his back into his chair.

"Our mutual acquaintance, Mike, introduced us. I mentioned to him that I needed a flatmate and later the same day John told him the same, and we ended up renting together."

"Really? What a coincidence. And he doesn't mind your…" Davidsen didn't know how to describe what he meant, he made a vague gesture to Sherlock. In turn, the consulting detective narrowed his eyes in offense.

"He tells me I'm quite aggravating on a regular basis...but I suppose no. He doesn't mind," he responded awkwardly. Davidsen thought about his next question, smirking at the idea of putting Sherlock on the spot.

"So it's quite serious then?" he asked, pausing from typing, with his fingers above the keyboard,

"You know, you two. That's pretty amazing."

He need not look at Sherlock to know he was probably another shade darker. _No, Sherlock would never be that obvious. His eyes would be the only thing to betray him. I can already imagine that caught, panicked, sensitive look in his eyes._

The long period of silence Sherlock gave supported his assumption.

"We're not really…" he began but trailed off.

"We're not exactly…" he tried again, then cleared his throat. This time his voice had returned to it's usual sarcastic bitterness, but with more aggression than he typically has towards people who are not Donovan or Anderson.

"John's heterosexual, and I'm married to my work. I don't know where people get these ridiculous and misguided ideas about us. I do not feel trivial emotions. My life has a greater value than the pathetic people who seem to overpopulate this earth, the type that live simply for human emotions. No wonder they are all so dismally disappointed. How dull it must be for you, Davidsen, to be among them."

Davidsen was not surprised by the reaction he received, but its sharpness hurt nevertheless. He nodded slightly and returned back to typing silently. He decided not to ask Sherlock anymore prying questions.

The consulting detective seemed disinterested with their task all of a sudden. His eyes focused on the people navigating the storm below, scrambling to escape the rain with coats pulled over their heads, or umbrellas in their hands. He watched their movements and read their stories critically, his eyes narrowed. He watched them like flies in a jar.

But, it was only because he knew. He knew that even if for just a moment, someone had held up a mirror to him, and in that moment, it was himself that he read with a critical mind. Nothing else could make him so vulnerable.

Time passed, and Davidsen found a way of eliminating the duplicate IP addresses in an efficient way. As soon as that discovery was made, his work went by quickly. When he found the correct address, Sherlock was so deep in thought, he had forgotten why they were there.

"Sherlock," the hacker told him, his excitement leaking into his voice, "I found it. I found the address."

Sherlock broke from his trance and looked at him. His eyes had returned to their normal expression: focused, inquisitive, intelligent, and analytic. He pushed his chair closer and grinned at the code on the screen.

"Good work Davidsen, now type in the code to a IP tracer service," he commanded. Davidsen smiled in victory and did as he said. Three minutes later the two were walking out of the building, exuding confidence and determination. It was only 1:30 and they still had time.

**...**

John squinted at the piece of paper, and then up at the address to the flat for confirmation. It was a match. The flat was nothing like his and Sherlock's converted flat, which was located in a nice metropolitan area. The electrician's was in a bad side of town and the people who milled around it looked like the kind of people you would meet under a bridge at 3am. The building didn't appear to be upkept very properly. Paint peeled off the door and one of the numbers hung crookedly by a single screw. _Seems like the place to find a criminal, _John thought. He took a breath to prepare himself for meeting the very dangerous man, and then knocked on the door and waited.

He heard footsteps behind the door and finally it opened with a creak. The man behind it only showed half his face as he peered out to see the visitor.

"Who are you?" he asked gruffly. John gave a friendly smile.

"I'm here to ask a few questions," the doctor told him casually. The man furrowed his brows.

"Why?" he defensively questioned.

John looked down, a smile gracing his face, but this one was less friendly than the last. This one was more of a 'don't mess with me because I'm trying to do this the polite way' smile. He stared daringly up at the half face behind the door, his smile dropping to show just how serious he is.

"Because if you don't answer my questions, you'll be answering detective inspector Lestrade's down at Scotland Yard," he answered.

The brown eye that peered at him, flared with fury but the door opened wide. In doing so, the rest of the man was revealed. His stature was tall, muscular, and entirely intimidating. He rose a foot taller than him. There was a boxy, heavy, appearance to his face, similar to the shape of rest of his body. His eyebrows seemed to be set in a permanent frown. The electrician moved to the side for him to enter. After John crossed the threshold, the man surveyed the area outside before closing the door behind him.

John turned around and the man was inches away from him, his eyes burning. The doctor strained his neck to look him in the face, and took a step back.

"You don't have any evidence," the electrician said. His voice was eerily steady.

John knew he had to play his cards right, or things might end badly. After all, Sherlock didn't know that he came here.

"Actually we do," he said matter of factly, "We tested DNA found at the electrical station outside the gallery, you know, the one you helped rob, and that DNA happens to match your record."

"I could be taking you to jail right now," John threatened. The electrician smiled broadly, but his eyebrows still remained in the frown like position.

"You could?" he asked teasingly. John kept a serious face and gave a single nod.

"Unless you answer my questions," he told him.

The electrician continued to smile and shook his head slowly.

"No. I'll tell you why. If that were true, the detective inspector would already have me at Scotland Yard. I think…" he trailed off. His voice was still strangely calm, but daring to break into violence at any moment, just like the rain storm earlier. He took a step toward John and John took another step backwards, his back hitting the edge of a table in the entryway.

"...you've overstayed your welcome," the man concluded. John's breath was steady and his head was held high. He was fearless.

When the man's meaty fist came into contact with his left cheek, sending a snap sound through the room, he was prepared. He grabbed the electrician's arm and used his momentum to restrain him in a chokehold. The man struggled against him, and John combatted this by hooking his leg around the man's and sending him off balance. His great weight hit the floor with a thud, and John came down after him, rolling them over so the electrician was face down on the floor.

"Let's try this again," John said through gritted teeth, his muscles straining against the bulky man's thick neck.

"I have some questions and you _are_ going to answer them."

**...**

Sherlock's hands locked to the sides of his head, his fingers raking in his curls. His face was wound up tightly, as if to hold in a yell, begging to be released. Davidsen looked at him curiously but knew better than to talk to him, lest he decide to take his anger out on him.

"No! They were just here!" he exclaimed. He leaned closer to Davidsen, and the hacker was very concerned that he was about to be punched in the face.

"The laptop is warm," Sherlock growled at him, "They were _just here_!"

Sherlock looked around the room spastically, looking for some kind of clue. They had followed the location of the IP address to an old abandoned block of flats and after an inspection of the area, they discovered the flats to be completely empty, except for one. It was the one flat that wasn't decayed to the point where the floor was caving in, yet Davidsen still felt that the room was unstable. The only thing in it was a laptop sitting in the center of the floor, and as Sherlock said, it was still warm. Sherlock picked up the laptop and examined it, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He growled and set it down again.

"Maybe I can try to hack into it-" Davidsen offered but Sherlock interrupted, pacing about the room as he did.

"They took the battery out. They're too smart. There are no fingerprints either."

Davidsen watched him awkwardly, waiting for the tall man to explain their next plan of action.

"Well what are we going to do now?" he asked finally. Sherlock acted as if he hadn't spoke.

"Maybe we should call John," Davidsen suggested. The consulting detective stopped pacing, debating within himself. Eventually, he did take his mobile out of his pocket and called his partner's number.

"Oh, hello Sherlock. Finally remember I exist?" came John's voice, sounding rather winded and agitated. Sherlock was surprised by his breathlessness.

"John? Why do you sound so tired?" he questioned. There was a desperate muffled voice on the other end, which was followed with a smack sound.

"John?" Sherlock asked again, his expression drawn in confusion and perhaps even concern, although he'd never admit it. There was a heavy sigh on the other end and then John was back.

"Tell me what you want, Sherlock, I'm busy," he told him with seriousness in his tone. Sherlock cleared his throat, taken aback by John's sudden moodiness. He struggled to remember why he called.

"It's just...Davidsen and I found the IP address and tracked the location. The thieves cleared out recently. We are at a dead end," he explained. John's laughter filled the phone and Sherlock became increasingly upset by the sound.

"This isn't funny John, we are running out of time!" he yelled. The doctor finished laughing.

"Sherlock, I know where they are."

Sherlock wasn't sure if he heard right. He blinked several times to make sure, and there was a silence over the phone as John waited.

"You know?" Sherlock asked, disbelieving. On the other end, John rolled his eyes.

"Listen the first time Sherlock," he told him, "Now do you want the address or not?"

**...**

Sherlock and Davidsen waited for John to arrive at the back car park where the address led them. According to John, the art thieves were located in an alleyway gambling pub. The exact location wasn't on the maps, so Sherlock was forced to wait for his partner despite the temptation to apprehend the suspects himself.

At last a cab pulled up.

The door opened and shockingly the person inside wasn't John. It was a large man with heavy features. His hands were tied behind his back with a zip tie and his mouth was gagged with a cloth tied around his head. The man stepped out and John came out behind him, pushing him along.

"Meet the electrician," John told them with a self-satisfied grin. Sherlock grinned back and even laughed at the situation. The tied up man narrowed his eyes and said something muffled against the fabric. From his expression and tone, it was most likely less than friendly.

"Jesus, you people are dangerous," Davidsen mumbled, glad he wasn't the one they were tracking down.

Sherlock beamed at John, not expecting him to have been so successful in his efforts, and now here they are about to catch the thieves because of him. He even felt a bit guilty for having doubted his valuable partner. As John walked closer to them, pulling the electrician with him by his restraints, Sherlock noticed the bloody mark on his cheek, and a bump forming beneath it. He frowned slightly. John rolled his eyes but continued to smile.

"Don't look at me like that," he told him.

Sherlock looked at him with confusion, "Like what?"

"Like you're concerned," John replied as he brushed past his partner. Sherlock pretended the idea was ridiculous and smirked at his friend's words.

"If I was concerned about anyone I'd be concerned about what you did to this man in return. We need him after all."

That reminded John why they had come here. He nudged the electrician harshly.

"Which way?" the doctor asked him strictly. The restrained man grumbled something and John shook his head.

"I'm not taking that cloth off."

The man sighed and instead indicated the direction with his eyes. John grabbed onto the zip tie that bound his hands, and pushed him forward so the rest of them could follow. He showed them down the correct alley until they came to an inconspicuous gray door. They stopped and John turned to Sherlock. Sherlock devised a quick plan of action in his head.

He turned to Davidsen.

"You stay here, and watch him," he told him. The hacker looked at him with uncertainty, but then nodded and agreed to the order. He walked over to the restrained man and held onto his bonds. Then the consulting detective looked to John.

"You and I are going in there. Act calm and say we were sent here by… what's his name?"

"Frank," John answered.

"Yes," Sherlock continued, "We are going to act like Frank sent us to ask about a job. We are in a tough spot for money and from what Frank told us, they always need more men on the job."

"Okay," John agreed with a nod. They took a deep breath and Sherlock knocked on the gray door.

_There's probably a password, _Sherlock pondered. _They would change the password frequently which relates to their frequent heists, which surely they are proud of, given their more than necessary yet clever precautions. So the password must be something surrounding this case. The name of the gallery? No that's too hard to remember, it's french. Maybe it's...oh, yes! The banner above the gallery door on the night of the opening, "Featuring Leo Christanza's main piece, The Woman"_

"The Woman," Sherlock said against the wood of the door. He could hear a lock mechanism slide out of it's place and the door opened to reveal a guard in a black overcoat. If possible, the man was even larger than the electrician. Sherlock himself had to strain to look him in the eyes. The man moved to the side and let Sherlock and John enter. The room was dark and smoky. The smell of strong alcohol filled the room overwhelmingly. There was a bar on the right wall, with no bartender. In the center of the room was a dim light which shined down on a circular table. Six men sat at the table with glasses of amber liquid in their rough hands and playing cards in the other. They heard the two men enter and paused their game to see who they were. They squinted at the doctor and the consulting detective, through the smoke.

"Who are you?" one of the men asked. He was blond and a bit lankier than the others. Sherlock surmised his position was for more intellectual purposes than extra muscle for transporting the art pieces.

"Old friends of Frank's, he sent us here. We are looking for some extra cash and he said we should talk to you. He told us about your last job, that art gallery. That was impressive."

The men seemed more at ease at the answer and some resumed looking at their cards or sipping their drinks.

"Well, where is he?" the blond man questioned, "He was supposed to be here over an hour ago."

John stepped in this time to respond, "He thought he saw someone trailing him so he told us to go ahead without him until he knew he was clear."

This sent a hushed roar around the table as the men discussed this. Some sounded panicked at the news.

One man whispered to the others, "I told you, it's that Sherlock Holmes fellow. I hear he can find anyone. There's no way to hide from him."

A few of them sounded their agreement while others shrugged it off as nothing. Then a voice from the shadows in the back of the room spoke up.

"There's no reason to fear Sherlock Holmes," he told the men smoothly. Sherlock gazed into the darkness to locate the source of the voice. The man sat, reclined in a wooden chair, his hair and his eyes were very dark. He wore a posh looking suit. Smoke pooled in the air around him as he exhaled from his cigarette and Sherlock's hand shook from craving. John sent him a disapproving look.

"There's no reason to fear Sherlock Holmes, because we will be rid of the statue by tonight, and by tomorrow we will be out of the country. There will be no trail for him to follow. Besides, we were so careful that no one, not even this famous detective, would be able to track us down," he explained. The men affirmed the man's statements and focused back on their game. John looked to Sherlock for a plan.

The consulting detective eyed the occupants of the room.

_Eight people total. The six at the table aren't wearing clothing that could easily conceal a gun, but the guard by the door is. There is a bulge in his right overcoat pocket and when we entered his fingers on his right hand instinctively twitched. He has one. The man in the back is dressed much nicer than the rest. He keeps the group in control by dispelling fears. He watches the poker game, instead of playing, to gauge the habits of the other men. He is clearly smart enough and powerful enough to be the leader. To ensure this power over the others, he most likely has a gun as well. He could be hiding it in the waistband of his trousers, under his jacket. _

Sherlock glanced back at John and then to the poker table and John understood. He walked over to the group and asked the blond man who spoke earlier if he could join. The man nodded and pulled over an extra chair. As John started the game, Sherlock moved toward the back wall and watched the men at the table casually.

"Happen to have an extra? I'm out." Sherlock asked the leader. Although he kept his eyes on the game, he reached into his pocket to grab a pack of cigarettes, in doing so, Sherlock saw a glimpse of metal beneath his jacket. He handed Sherlock the cigarette and a lighter. Sherlock took it, and shook as he lit the cigarette. The only times he ever had them anymore was when John wasn't around, but John couldn't deny him now.

"Thanks," he told the man as he inhaled and handed him his lighter back.

"So you're here for a job?" the leader asked. Sherlock exhaled and nodded in response.

"You don't seem the type for heavy lifting. What's your specialty?"

"Well," Sherlock thought, "I'm more of a planner, you could say. I have an eye for detail."

The man laughed and seemed satisfied with his answer.

"That's good to hear. It's rare to find one with brains anymore. I do everything on my own nowadays," he explained. Suddenly an argument broke out at the poker table. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as one red faced man yelled at another about cheating. All of the men at the table seemed tense. From what he could gather, they were all losing money to that man, even John, who seemed agitated as he removed more cash from his wallet. Sherlock knew he would make him repay him later. The consulting detective came up with an idea as he noticed the tension.

_They just need one more fight to send them over the edge…_

Sherlock caught eyes with John and John gave him a questioning look. He looked to the man who was winning their game, and then to the guard. John knew what he was trying to say and blinked in understanding. Sherlock smirked. The next time the man won another round, and collected money from the other players' bets, John made an off comment.

"You play with plenty of tricks up your sleeve," he said accusingly. It was all that was needed to send the others over the edge. Whether it was true or not, it didn't matter. They were tired of losing money and a fight broke out as they condemned the man for hiding cards up his sleeve. When the first punches flew, John abruptly pushed his chair back and walked toward the front wall where they entered, appearing to escape the fight.

"Stop!" the leader yelled with rage, upset at his loss of control. Sherlock and John shared a look and both nodded. In a single motion, John hand punched the guard in the stomach and grabbed his gun from his coat pocket, while simultaneously, Sherlock burned the leader's cheek with the bud of his cigarette. The man reached for his face and screamed and in that split second, Sherlock swiped his gun as well. The other men were still too preoccupied with their fight to notice what had happened, so John and Sherlock moved back to back in the center of the room, holding the guns out threateningly. Their hearts pounded loudly in their chests as everything happened so quickly.

"Nobody move!" Sherlock yelled and the occupants of the room finally realized what was going on. Having no other choice, they obeyed the command.


	9. Chapter 8: Like a Fine Wine

I would like to thank my readers so far for continuing to read! Notes to the reviewers at the end of the chapter! From here on out, chapters after this are about the murders. We are going to see our favorite crime solvers travel to a new place and meet a lot of...interesting characters. I would love to hear your theories in future reviews :) Sorry for the Johnlock in this chapter. Not really.

Estella Jean

* * *

Srgt. Donovan knocked on the door to the office. She heard a faint assent for her to enter and did so, balancing a coffee cup in one hand and a file folder in the other.

"Greg, I have the results back from the lab," she told him, "and your coffee."

The man had been dangerously close to sleeping, his head resting in his hand and his back slouched over his desk. He perked up at the mention of caffeination. He willed his droopy eyelids to open.

"Thank you Sally, you're an angel," he mumbled, and sat up to accept the fragrant liquid energy. He smiled as he breathed in the wafting steam.

"And the results," she reminded him again with more insistency, her hand still outstretched.

"Oh! Of course, I'll look at it in just a moment. Uh...results for what again?," he asked a bit drowsily. Srgt. Donovan sighed.

"The latent footprints, and the DNA of the victims."

"Right!" Lestrade remembered. He flipped open the folder and looked at the first paper. It was a breakdown of chemicals found in the latent footprints discovered at the loading area of the art gallery.

"Hm..." He hummed in thought. Chemicals were not his area of knowledge. Luckily the trace evidence analyzers at the lab knew this, and included a summarized list at the bottom of the report which was slightly more straightforward, although still cryptic.

"Motor oil, iron rust, ash, partially oxidized paint, wine, ILRs, oak, tires, brick dust, an element composition matching the Thames...C4H8Cl2S, substance unknown?"

Lestrade gingerly set it back down and pushed the folder further away from him.

"Yeah...I'm going to save that one for later," he told her, clearing his throat and sipping at his drink. While he looked down at the warm liquid, another voice interrupted his thoughts.

"You don't need Sherlock Holmes for that you know."

The detective inspector looked up from his desk to see Anderson walking in and standing next to Sally. He gave him a look of surprise and irrepressible doubt. Sergeant Donovan smirked and crossed her arms in smugness, her pride inflating at the idea of Anderson proving himself above the arrogant consulting detective for once.

"He's right Greg. I bet he can tell you the exact location they were at before the gallery," she told him.

"Well...I suppose it couldn't harm anything," he decided and handed the list to Anderson. The forensic scientist took the paper, walking slowly around the room with an equally smug look as he read. Lestrade watched his path with curiosity.

_Surely, Anderson can't do it. Right?, _he thought to himself. Anderson stopped, seemingly coming to a conclusion. Sally dropped her crossed arms and stared at him eagerly. She had been waiting for so long for this moment, for her man to outsmart her nemesis. She knew he deserved more credit than Lestrade had ever given him.

_Maybe this will change things, _she thought too ambitiously.

"It seems," Anderson started, to keep the suspense alive, "That they were somewhere near a car garage and a wine cellar located near the Thames. ILRs are products of arson accelerants so one of the buildings was burned down, perhaps even by the thieves themselves."

The man glanced at Donovan, and then to the DI for the kind of shocked praise Sherlock usually receives. Instead, they looked behind him where a familiar voice chimed in.

"Brilliant" he drawled. Anderson turned to see the consulting detective himself, leaning arrogantly in the doorway of Lestrade's office, quietly listening in. "That's brilliant Anderson, coming from you. You really got that from the evidence?"

He walked into the room to face Anderson head on. The other man straightened his pose and raised his chin, although Sherlock was much taller than him. He wore a self satisfied expression.

"It's never as hard as you make it seem, Sherlock," he told him, straightening his shirt sleeves causally, "Anybody could do it really."

Sherlock tilted his head and considered his words for a second.

"No…hard? Maybe for me it's hard. To be so utterly stupid. But for you Anderson, it seems to come quite naturally. Now step to the side. Bring them in now Davidsen!" he called to the doorway behind him. Suddenly a flood of men filed into the office. Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan, watched with confusion and shock as gruff men with downcast faces, and bound wrists, entered the room. First came the men from the poker table, then the poshly dressed leader of the thieves, with his face still blistering from Sherlock's cigarette. At the end, was the guard and the electrician, each being pushed along by Davidsen and John.

"What the bloody hell Sherlock? Who are they?" Lestrade asked the proud man in the overcoat with alarm. Sherlock glanced at the men and back to the DI casually.

"The art thieves," he replied simply. Lestrade's eyes went wide as he looked at the captives.

"And how on earth did you manage to find and detain them in a single day?" Lestrade couldn't help but ask with curiosity, and perhaps jealousy. Sherlock groaned loudly.

"John!" he shouted, to the doctor. His partner sighed and maneuvered around the criminals until he emerged into view. Sherlock hated to explain himself, he had come to understand that. Therefore, he was often demanding John do the task himself, since he was often with him during the moments needing to be retold.

"Alright," John said with exasperation before going over the events of the day. He began with earlier that morning when he made the discovery that the thieves were international, and continued to the point when they had Davidsen hack into his own confiscated computer in the evidence room of Scotland Yard.

"I hope my assistance with the case will pardon me," Davidsen told Lestrade with a rotten grin. Lestrade gaped at him and then at Sherlock.

"Jesus Sherlock he's a criminal" He said, exasperatedly, while rubbing his hands across his face.

"But a helpful criminal," Davidsen said hopefully. Lestrade groaned through the barrier of his palms.

"Ugh the paperwork..." he mumbled. John continued the story to the end when they snuck into the pub, attacked the men, held them at gunpoint, and restrained them. By the time he finished, Lestrade looked at the pair and then to the grinning Davidsen and back to Sherlock again.

"I'm just going to pretend all that was legal...Fantastic job. International black market thieves in a single day. I have nothing to complain about. One question however, where is the statue? Have you found it?" He asked them. Sherlock looked to the leader, and he grinned back with a smile, wincing as the flesh of his burned cheek stretched.

"You can't prove anything without the statue," he said furiously, through gritted teeth. Sherlock smiled almost predatorily.

"I was hoping you'd say that. Give me the footprint analysis Lestrade," he demanded. Lestrade did as he said and Sherlock's eyes darted across it quickly.

_Motor oil_

_Iron rust_

_Ash_

_Partially oxidized paint_

_Wine_

_ILRs_

_Oak_

_Tires_

_Brick dust_

_An element composition matching the Thames_

_C4H8Cl2S (substance unknown)_

_Substance unknown?_

Sherlock closed his eyes and drifted away. Lestrade's office slowly took a different form and the people vacating it vaporized. Everything was replaced by gold, gold intricate molding, gold scrolling wallpaper, gold frames containing priceless paintings, armchairs with gold pinstripe fabric and clawed feet. Around him numbers, letters, and molecular formulas swirled in the air.

Back in Lestrade's office, the people eyed him curiously, except for John who was quite used to seeing Sherlock in his astral plane like state. _His mind palace, _John smiled, shaking his head at the idea. Although it was strange, it was very effective. It was like a bizarre mixture of art and science. Anderson and Donovan rolled their eyes and scoffed, clearly assuming it was all an act for attention. John smirked at the way Sherlock was about to prove them wrong.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

_C4H8Cl2S is Dichlorodiethyl sulfide, mustard gas._

_Obviously it's not a car garage, although there are traces of motor oil and tires. It's a WWII storage warehouse which used to store chemical supplies as well as military vehicles. Not many WWII storage buildings still exist in London, and there were few that ever contained chemical warfare. ILRs are the products of fire accelerants. I think there is a derelict WWII storage warehouse located by the Thames that was burned down by arsonists in the 1960's, decades after it closed. The wine and oak points to a wine cellar, most likely located nearby the storage building. Wine is stored where it is cool and devoid of light, so it would be underground. Maybe they took the statue there for extra protection._

He took his mobile from his pocket and quickly swiped it, punching in information, and immediately finding a related article.

"_Derelict Army Supply Reserve Depot at Convoys Wharf Left in Ruins after Arson Fire"_

He located the address in seconds.

"Here," He said, sliding his phone to Lestrade. The detective inspector furrowed his brows at the address in concentration, trying to figure out how the man came to that conclusion. He swiftly wrote it on a writing pad as he mumbled 'amazing' under his breath.

"There should be an old brick wine cellar" Sherlock continued, beginning to walk around the room. John watched him with interest as he explained.

"It is underground where the wine could have been kept cool and dark, providing them more protection. It's identifiable by its newly painted exterior, the paint was not fully oxidized so it was very recent."

Sherlock stopped, eyeing the man who had offered him a cigarette earlier. He stared into Sherlock's eyes daringly.

"The real question is who are they supposed to be delivering the statue to?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes but the man refused to speak. It quickly became a silent, unwavering battle. The man would not be intimidated by the consulting detective. John watched the tension build between them and began to feel unusually uncomfortable, possessive even, of his best friend. He had the urge to break them up, to shove the captive to the ground and force him to reveal the information Sherlock sought. Instead, he frowned and silently looked down at his feet.

Another thief finally responded however, the lanky blonde who introduced John to the game of poker, which was ultimately left unfinished.

"They...contacted us anonymously," he said with a shaky voice. The leader broke his gaze with Sherlock and glared at his worker, fire in his eyes.

"George-" he started to warn him through gritted teeth, but the blonde ignored him.

"We didn't even know who it was...they offered a large sum of money for the statue and said to deliver it tonight. To a warehouse."

Sherlock listened carefully to the man. He walked closer to him and the man began to tremble with fear. Sherlock showed him the address on the screen of his mobile.

"This warehouse?" he asked. The blonde held his breath and glanced down at the phone screen without moving his head. Then gave a single nod. Sherlock grinned in response.

"Lestrade, you have a job tonight. You better send someone to stakeout that warehouse and see who shows up."

"Right," Lestrade agreed and looked directly at Donovan.

"Greg, are you serious?" Donovan scoffed with indignation. Lestrade stared back in all seriousness and she got visibly more upset. She bit her lip and flexed the muscles in her fists, but swallowed her anger.

"Yes, sir," she said, trying to contain her fury. Suddenly, she pushed through the crowd in the room and stomped out of the office. Anderson followed soon after, but not before sending an antagonistic look Sherlock's way.

Sherlock felt a small smile play on his lips, a genuine one, as he watched the pair escape their defeat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John staring at him. He turned to face him, and the doctor's eyes glowed with admiration, and possibly relief. The latter puzzled him, which is a difficult thing to achieve when it comes to Sherlock. His smile began to grow. They both knew what the other was thinking. Without another word Sherlock began moving toward the door.

"Whoa, hold on a minute. Where do you think you're going?" Lestrade asked in a stressed tone.

"Food," Sherlock grunted and did not bother to turn around. John followed close by his side, his hands resting in his pockets and his mind at ease.

"We need your written statements! Sherlock? Sherlock, are you listening?" Lestrade asked desperately.

"Sherlock, I mean it!" he called, but he was already carelessly out the door.

"We told you the story. You write the statements," came the distant but smooth reply of the curly headed man. John snickered at his rebelliousness, feeling the exhilaration of previous events still coursing through his veins.

Once they hit the night air, they broke into excited laughter. John looked at his feet and chuckled while Sherlock grinned beside him, gazing at the street ahead. The cool air invigorated them and only caused their senses to heighten in the moment, few people can say they know that feeling of being absolutely alive, in every aspect of the word. John could feel London around him, the very essence of the city, the lights, the cars, the people, the sounds.

He knew what it was like to be Sherlock Holmes, to be inside everything at once.

He was behind in his breaths but he did not want to stop to revive it. The breathlessness was vital to this current state he found himself in, to be a step behind the next thing he is pursuing.

"Oh Sherlock," he sighed with contentment, "Can you believe today?" he chuckled to himself at the memory. Sherlock smirked and glanced over at his shorter friend.

"As in, can I believe you kicked the arse of a man taller than me, with the frame of the Hulk?" he laughed, "Or as in, can I believe that you found that man in question to begin with, considering the brief instructions I gave you? Both of which are equally astounding."

John looked at him and grinned, the tenderness of his swelling cheek temporarily forgotten.

"You know what's astounding? That you picked up on a pop culture reference in that silly computer brain of yours."

Sherlock looked around the street, spotting a cab dropping off a person not too far ahead.

"I guess we are both full of surprises today," he mumbled, "Speaking of which, that's our cab up ahead. We better quicken our pace."

His long legs took greater strides, and John was forced to fast-walk to keep up with their gaining distance.

"Why?" he asked with an expelled breath that sent a cloud of vapor from him.

Sherlock smiled, "You'll see."

…

When they pulled up to the restaurant, John turned to see the sign and smiled, letting his back hit the seat of the cab again. Sherlock noticed but was confused, he didn't know what the action indicated, but found it contradictory.

"I'm sorry, was this not-" he began with regret and even embarrassment causing him to blink a few times. John turned to him, his head still against the seat lazily but content.

"No! It was a great idea, just unexpected." John smiled with nostalgia, "We haven't been here since-"

"We met," Sherlock finished with a nod. It was a location associated with strong emotions for them both. If anything, the plan to take John here again made Sherlock more sensitive and on edge.

"Yes," John mumbled in thought. Sherlock took a deep breath and mustered up the courage to face his insecurities, opening the door to the cab, and stepping out onto the street. He bent down to look at John, a daring expression in his eyes.

"Coming, John?" he asked and his flatmate gave him his signature half-smile. The next moment, the two of them were entering the doors to the italian restaurant. They were instantly flooded with the atmosphere of that first night, the thrill, the nervous buzzing in their stomachs, which hasn't really gone away since. The lights were dim as before, but even in the darkness it was easy for Angelo to spot the pair.

"Sherlock, John! What a great surprise to see you here again. Is it your anniversary?" he joyfully asked the men. Sherlock looked at John, who stood awkwardly in response to the assumption.

"Yes," Sherlock blurted out to John's astonishment. He looked at his partner questioningly but Sherlock only smiled mysteriously at him. Angelo grabbed a couple menus and led them to the window table they sat at before, the one overlooking the busy street. They sat down across one another and the man handed them their menus.

"Never went back to the cane John?" he asked inquisitively. John smiled at the thought of his lack of dependency.

"Nope. After I left it, I never looked back," he told him proudly. Sherlock smiled at John's words while he read over the menu.

"Good to hear! Well I'm glad to see things worked out so well. I knew you were special John, when I first saw you. I thought to myself 'Angelo, that poor man comes in here every week, and every week he comes in alone, and frankly looking like a completely miserable bloke.' That cynical exterior never fooled me one moment, Sherlock. Then one day, he walks in with a smile on his face and low and behold, another human being. I thought to myself 'Angelo, that's got to be a special one there.' A very special one," he gave a round, loud, laugh and finally departed.

As soon as he was out of sight, John set his menu down and looked at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"Sherlock why did you let him believe all that?" he asked urgently, but gently at the same time. Sherlock looked back at him as if it were obvious.

"For the free bottle of wine of course." he replied. John leaned back in his chair again and shook his head with amusement.

"That's awful," he said with humor in his voice. Sherlock snickered and continued searching the menu.

"I couldn't help it," he muttered. Just as Sherlock predicted, when Angelo returned to take their orders, he came back with an expensive red wine, which he carefully poured for the pair. They struck a conversation over their smooth, rich, red beverage.

"Why Angelo's?" John asked finally, after a long period of comfortable silence. Sherlock swirled his glass of wine delicately while he answered.

"Why must there be a reason?" he asked absentmindedly. The wine seemed to make him feel lighter, as if he was starting to float away.

John scoffed with amusement, "Says the man that believes there is a reason behind the color socks people choose to wear."

"But there is a reason John-"

John held his hand out to stop him from going on another tangent, although they were usually very interesting. It just wasn't the kind of answer he was hoping for that night.

"Whatever the reason is Sherlock, it was a good choice." he said, his blue eyes twinkling as a cab drove by the window. Sherlock watched the shine pass over the orbs curiously.

"It was?" he asked, feeling even more light, although he had not had anymore wine yet.

"Yes," John smiled, staring into the consulting detective's analytic eyes. The doctor was thankful they weren't too analytic. John himself, was proof that Sherlock's mind wasn't a perfect machine. There were some details it somehow overlooked. But as they gazed, Angelo suddenly appeared with their meals and the moment was lost behind carefully constructed walls.

John remembered the conversation they had at this very table.

"_You have a girlfriend?" I asked out of curiosity._

"_Girls, not really my area," he replied casually. I stopped in my tracks when the knowledge settled in my mind. Sherlock never took the time to explain things. He only gave brief straightforward responses, so I had to put the pieces together like a puzzle._

"_Oh...so do you have a boyfriend?" I asked, somehow hoping to hear no and yes at the same time. Why...I don't know. I remember instinctively licking my bottom lip. _

"_...Which is fine," I added quickly. Maybe too quickly._

"_I know it's fine," Sherlock replied with narrowed eyes, but did not elaborate. _

"_So you have a boyfriend." I clarified. He looked startled by the assumption and instantly denied the statement._

"_No."_

_My heartbeat sped up._

"_Oh, okay. So you're unattached then. Just like me. Fine, good."_

_I realized that maybe I had said too much. The last thing I wanted was to lose our chance at being flatmates because of my uncomfortable prying._

"_John...erm…" he began. I gulped, not knowing what he was about to say. _

"_I think you should know I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered, I'm not really looking for any-"_

_Oh God. He thinks I was hitting on him! _

"_No, no, that's not what I...no! I'm just saying… it's all fine," I stumbled, trying to cover myself with justifications. My face became a darker red and I prayed he wouldn't notice. _

"_...good, thank you," Sherlock's voice drifted into silence._

John sighed and set down his glass of wine. It didn't taste quite as sweet anymore but he couldn't articulate why. The memory had some odd feeling of regret associated with it. Sherlock frowned as he noticed John's silence.

"You know, I thought that was rather good, how we disarmed those thieves, today," he mentioned as he took a bite of food. John smiled at the thought of their ninja like skills, slowly being pulled from his more somber thoughts.

"Yeah you burned a man's face with a cigarette bud. Davidsen's right. We are dangerous men," he laughed and Sherlock laughed too, satisfied that John was back again. The rest of their time at Angelo's was spent with light conversation, praise, teasing, nagging, and of course, a lively debate about Sherlock owing John money for having lost so many bets during the poker game with the thieves earlier.

"But I shouldn't have to pay you back John. I got you wine," Sherlock told him with narrowed eyes. John scoffed.

"Angelo got us wine!" he argued.

"But because of me," Sherlock pointed out. John shook his head with what seemed like a permanent smile.

…

Late that night, John got a message just before he fell asleep:

Come to Scotland Yard first thing tomorrow. The bodies have been identified.

GL

* * *

ImaSupernaturalCSI thanks for the praise! John needs to be more represented as a badass in my opinion. Sure, Sherlock is an intellectual prodigy, but the reason he likes John is because he's smart for an average guy and he can be tough as nails (yet still a total softy). More Bamf!John in future chapters.

Abutterflymind you already know how awesome and helpful you are! Thanks for the reviews as well. I love Davidsen's character, and I love making John the badass he is. There will be more of that for sure.

And thank you anonymous reviewer! I hope you enjoy the rest of the chapters as well.


	10. Chapter 9: A Headache Follows

The next morning, Sherlock struggled to stumble out of his bedroom, the light filtering through the windows of the flat proving to be too much for his sensitive pupils. He squinted his eyes and attempted to shield them as he made his way to the curtains, but his clouded mind miscalculated the distance between his foot and the rug and in seconds he was laying face first on the floor. He let out a groan as pain shot through his head like bolts of lightning.

"Sherlock?" came John's drowsy but concerned voice from somewhere in the distance. Sherlock groaned again as his partner's voice rattled in his skull. He gave a muffled sound in response, not wanting to lift his head from its place, buried in the fuzzy carpet. John tripped on the last few stairs down to the flat and barely caught his balance in time. He rubbed his eyes harshly, as he walked in, to clear the fog from them.

"I heard a loud thump. Are you al-" he was cut off as the sun hit him at full force and caused him to stagger.

"Oh Jesus that is bright," he mumbled and rubbed his eyes again. When he finally got the courage to open them, he noticed Sherlock in his robe, lying on the floor like a stiff plank of wood.

"Wait, why are you on the rug?" he asked with slight confusion through narrowed eyes. Sherlock turned his head to the side, his eyes screwed shut.

"Wine, John."

John chuckled and shook his head. Apparently they were real light weights if half a bottle of wine each was enough to give them a decent hangover the next day. He wasn't exactly surprised that was the case with Sherlock, after all, the man hardly ever drank because according to him, it impaired his mental deductions. John, on the other hand, did drink on occasion, and having after effects was unusual for him. Frequently, he went to bars to pick up girls, and rarely did he end up with a pounding headache in the morning. Except he wasn't drinking with a casual flirt last night, he was drinking with the consulting detective. Nothing about that could be measurable with a standard, too many variables were involved, as Sherlock would say. For example, they were incredibly tired and physically worn out, which could have easily been a factor. Also, what kind of wine Angelo chose to serve was completely unknown, and for all they were aware it could have been a bad batch. But, even if it had been a normal bottle, Sherlock could have slipped some kind of drug into it for the name of science. The doctor was uncomfortable with the last theory and really hoped it wasn't true. He really hoped their relationship had some kind of proprietary boundary, at least to the point where experiments must be participated in knowingly and voluntarily.

He ignored his theories and his throbbing head, persevering towards the windows so he could draw the curtains closed. An audible sound of relief came from Sherlock as the darkness comforted him. John walked over to the man and smiled as he nudged him with his sock clad foot.

"C'mon Sherlock, get up," he commanded but it came off as more of a gentle coaxing. There was a heavy sigh from the tall man, his body tensing and then going limp as he inhaled and exhaled the breath. The doctor pulled up on the back of his robe and Sherlock stumbled backward onto his feet. Immediately after, he fell into John's armchair, a scowl on his face.

"Oh don't give me that look. Stop being so moody. I'll make you something for your hangover," John told him as he walked into the kitchen. Sherlock continued to scowl but mostly out of stubborn habit. He watched John out of the corner of his eyes as he made coffee and opened the fridge to look for breakfast ingredients. The doctor let out a gasp as he saw a decayed face staring at him and slammed the door of the fridge shut. John pinched the bridge of his nose and bowed his head in frustration. Sherlock smirked.

John had finally had enough of the joke and calmly stomped over to the man in the armchair, his posture stiffening into his military pose. He stood directly in front of the curly headed man, who looked at him blankly. John's face was stony, he refused to blink which frankly scared Sherlock. He furrowed his brows in response, challenging the doctor. That seemed to break him.

With a steady voice, John lowly uttered, "If that...thing, isn't out of the fridge by the end of the day, there's going to be two corpses in this flat."

Sherlock stared at John's lips as he threatened and then looked away indifferently, rapping his fingers on the armrest.

"I still have a hangover," he replied blandly. John huffed, straightened up, and headed back into the kitchen. Since most of the ingredients for his hangover concoction were sitting on the kitchen table with a strange odor emanating from them, he decided to stick with very dark coffee as an alternative. He made sure to make as much noise as possible when he grabbed two mugs from the cupboard, dropped them on the counter, and slammed the cupboard closed again. Sherlock winced at each sound which made John smirk in satisfaction. To him, the pain was worth getting back at the smug bastard. He brought the steaming mugs over to the armchairs and handed the man his coffee before sitting down across from him.

"Lestrade sent me a text last night, about the bodies," John told him over a sip of coffee. Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed in response, clearly not in the mindset to think about the case yet.

"He said to come down there as soon as we can, so finish your coffee and get dressed. I want to grab a bite to eat on the way out."

Sherlock groaned with annoyance in response.

"Lestrade is not my keeper," he grumbled.

_Oh not this again. He's going to directly defy Greg to make a silly point, _John thought, _There's no purpose to arguing against it. He'll just be rude when he does arrive._

"Alright, fine, what are we going to do then?" he questioned his partner seriously.

"Hartford," he mumbled. John furrowed his brows in confusion.

"Sorry?" he asked. Sherlock sighed, opened his eyes and sat up. He took his phone from his robe pocket and pulled up a picture.

"Bruce Hartford, the art gallery director who mysteriously showed up at Meredith's grand opening," he clarified and showed the picture to John. His partner narrowed his eyes as he studied it. The man in the picture had dark hair, turning silver. He appeared distinguished, as could be seen in his fitted suit, but somehow...brutish. Perhaps it was his stature, or perhaps it was his grim expression, but it made one uneasy.

"Yes," John nodded, "I recognize him. I looked him up yesterday. His gallery is undergoing renovations."

"Interesting," Sherlock said and put his mobile away.

"But we are going to see Lestrade just after, right?" John asked in a tone that suggested it was not a question. Sherlock gave a single nod and stared in the direction of the covered window.

"Right," he agreed simply and drank his coffee.

After getting ready and leaving the flat, John persuaded Sherlock that they should walk a few streets to a cafe before taking a cab to Bruce's office. The grumbling in Sherlock's stomach forced him to agree, although his mind protested. As they walked, John warmed his hands in the pockets of his jacket and Sherlock wrapped his blue scarf more tightly around his neck. The air had a biting chill to it that morning.

Sherlock observed the pedestrians they passed with critical eyes. John looked towards his partner and noticed the way his eyes darted over the men and women, in business attire, making deliveries, looking for addresses, talking on the phone on busy street corners. He smiled and Sherlock took note of it. The next passerby was a man with glasses and a satchel slung over his shoulder.

"He's an investment accountant," Sherlock said effortlessly.

"How?" John asked curiously. He must be getting used to Sherlock's deductions because he wasn't surprised at all, in fact, he suspected him to come to such a conclusion.

"He wears a suit so he works for a company, either banking, investment, or business. He has poor eyesight from constantly reading small figures. Bankers carry locked briefcases to hold their papers, it's more secure. But he carries a satchel because it provides space for other items, calculators, eyeglass cases. Notice how he counted the change in his pocket just by the feel of the coins? It's a habit. He's probably determining how much he should spend on food, therefore determining where his destination is, which is why he is looking at street signs, because he hasn't decided what shop to go to yet. He avoids eye contact with people in public because he is self conscious. It's easy to assume then that he is an accountant but his position requires limited people interaction. He probably doesn't work with large groups of people, so instead he must work with single clients at a time. Most likely an investment accountant," Sherlock explained.

There was silence for a moment as they walked in step.

"Show off," John mumbled under his breath. Sherlock gave him a smug look in response, then led them down another street. Suddenly, John accidentally bumped into a woman walking the other direction.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" John told her apologetically, she pardoned him and they resumed. Sherlock raised his brow at the incident and looked at John questioningly.

"How do you feel this morning John?" Sherlock asked finally.

John shrugged.

"The hangover must still have a hold on me. The headache is gone but I feel a bit out of it," he told him.

"I see. How does your stomach feel. Do you have cravings? Any kind of odd pains?" he asked strangely.

John looked at him suspiciously, "No. Why do you ask? Those seem like very specific questions."

"Hm," Sherlock hummed in response, then checked the watch on his wrist. He calculated something in his mind and John watched his expression critically.

"Wait a minute...you did slip something into the wine last night, didn't you?" John exclaimed. Sherlock looked ahead and ignored his accusation. John looked at his partner with fury and astonishment, growing more frustrated with the man as the day progressed.

"I can't even believe you. 'Free wine' you said. Ugh, you have no sense of conscience. You can't do that to me. I'm your friend, not a lab rat," he growled, feeling his face grow redder.

"Friends should let friends experiment on them if it's imperative to a scientific investigation," Sherlock replied as they crossed the street.

"You didn't even tell me!" John exclaimed angrily. Sherlock looked at his partner as if he was dumb.

"John, you know that would open the experiment up to the possibility of placebo effect."

John groaned and knew that despite his efforts, he would never win this argument. Sherlock clearly did not have the capability of understanding.

Soon after, they arrived at the cafe. A familiar paint pallette sign struck out from the side of the building, with the words 'Local colour Cafe' printed on the front. The pair had gone to the cafe a few times in the past, typically on days like this when they were in a hurry for a quick morning snack before stopping at Scotland Yard. They pushed the door open and entered, a small bell ringing as they did so. Immediately they were hit with pleasant smells of pastries and a variety of coffee and tea drinks. Between the sweet aromas, the warm air, and the gentle yellow wall colors, the place had a very comforting feel about it. They made their way to the ordering line and although the cafe was packed, Sherlock predicted which seats would be open by the time they were ready to sit down. John admired the art on the walls as they waited. The cafe was well known in its own right, for displaying paintings from local artists, which definitely seemed to attract a certain type of customer. While most coffee shops were occupied by people working, reading, or on the go, Local colour was mostly frequented by more creative and social people. When they finally got the chance to order and sit down with their drinks, at the exact table Sherlock suggested, they took off their extra layers to cool down. As the consulting detective took off his overcoat and his scarf, he noticed the person sitting behind John and nudged his partner urgently.

"What?" John asked, alarmed. Sherlock gestured to a table behind him. John turned the swivel chair he sat at, and tried his best to be casual about it. He turned his head slightly and saw what Sherlock was referring to. There was a blonde sitting at the corner table, a cup of tea in her hand. She appeared to be stressfully going over a schedule. It was Meredith.

"Should we go talk to her?" John asked. Sherlock nodded in response.

"You go," he told the doctor, "I am waiting for our food."

John knew that was code for 'It's early in the morning and I don't want to interact with other humans', but agreed to it anyways. He took his hot drink with him as he approached the woman's table. He cleared his throat and she looked up.

"Oh, hello, Joseph isn't it?" She asked not quite recognizing him. She closed the folder she was reading. He smiled politely at the art director as he replied.

"John. I'm Sherlock's partner," he reminded her. She looked at him with sudden uncharacteristic warmth in her blue eyes. Her voice lowered with a tone that was drifting towards emotional.

"John! Oh I'm so grateful that you and Sherlock found my statue... I don't know how you did it but you saved my gallery. You saved all of my hard work that I've put into it in the last five years of my life."

Suddenly she was on her feet and hugging the doctor and he was too stunned to respond. He and Sherlock had received such gratitude in the past, but from her attitude last time they spoke, she didn't seem like the type to hug, especially not a stranger. She seemed so stuck up and detached, but apparently they had struck a sensitive cord. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he saw the interaction and quickly stood up. He smoothed over his suit and strutted over to Meredith's table just as she pulled away from John with tears in her eyes. She noticed Sherlock and gave him a hug as well, which was even more shocking, given the tension they had at first meeting. John grinned at his partner teasingly, and he scowled at him from over her shoulder in response.

"Thank you," she told him, and let go, to Sherlock's relief.

"Did they deliver it to you already?" John asked her. She wiped away a tear and nodded.

"Yes, this morning. I'm even trying to schedule another opening, as soon as you find out who killed the women. When do you think that will be? By the end of the week?" She asked, her voice had already changed back to it's usual serious tone. She looked at the two men eagerly.

John looked at Sherlock and back to the woman again.

"Possibly. We definitely can't promise anything. It could be a week or it could be a few months honestly," he explained to her. She didn't appear to like that news.

"What am I going to do for a few months? My investors are pulling out one by one as it is. They think…" She trailed off and looked down at her lap.

"...they think someone at the gallery could be involved," she explained. The partners looked at her with confusion.

"Who?" Sherlock asked. She looked back up at him critically.

"No one. It's just, they want to be sure. It's all about reputation when it comes to these wealthy people. I think it's simply ridiculous. Nobody at the gallery would have done this. I know them all very well. Cara and Leo are dear friends of mine. Even the caretaker. Mr. Eisenheim was like a father to me," she told him defensively, "If there's anyone that you should be suspicious of, it's that man that spoke to me during that night."

"Bruce?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes! That was his name I think," she agreed.

"We are actually on our way to talk to him now," John told her. She seemed slightly more relaxed at the information.

"That's good news at least," she said, attempting to stay positive, but not being entirely successful with the task.

"I'm sorry," John said delicately, "We will do all we can, but we can't make any promises that it will be soon."

She sighed and nodded in understanding, looking down at the closed folder.

"We will check in with you later," John told her.

"Of course," she said and then they separated. The partners finished up with their drinks and ate their pastries in a hurry. When they were done they immediately went to search for a cab to take them to Bruce Hartford's office.


	11. Chapter 10: Our Friend Bruce

The men sat side by side in matching wooden chairs, waiting to hear permission from the secretary to enter the office, while they examined the reception area casually.

Sherlock had already taken note of several things, the location of the office which was a rented space in the central business district, the pale blue walls, and of course, the paintings. They were of a somewhat different style than what was displayed at Meredith's gallery. He couldn't quite place what the distinction was, except that they seemed more dull and less thought provoking in a way. They followed basic concepts of expressionism, so much so that you might even call them conservative.

_Dull_, Sherlock thought.

John bounced his knee as he glanced over the room, and turned around to see the wall length painting above their chairs. He squinted at the odd shapes, attempting to visualize a coherent image, but eventually gave up with a shake of his head. He didn't seem to notice any difference with the art. To him, Bruce and Meredith both had bizarre tastes. John's definition of art, if he had to have a definition, was some kind of display which could be identifiable. A painting of cathedral windows in the morning sun, or a statue of a historical figure, that was art. These off angles and strange color schemes didn't make sense, didn't have purpose.

"He's ready to see you now," the voice of Bruce's attractive secretary broke their wandering thoughts. John thanked her courteously. The brunette smiled at them as they passed her desk and approached the frosted glass door with_Bruce Hartford_etched on the surface.

John glanced at Sherlock, and his partner stared back expectantly. John sighed and shook his head, opening the door and holding it open for him as Sherlock obviously wanted. The consulting detective made his grand entrance as usual, curly head held high, strutting his long legs over to the man behind the desk. However, as he crossed over into the room, the alarms in his senses began to go off. His eyes darted everywhere at once.

_The bookshelf,_ he narrowed his eyes, _the painting, the desk, the shoes. There's definitely something suspicious here._

John, on the other hand, walked in as any other person would, to address the man they had planned on meeting. Bruce Hartford.

The man resembled the picture on Sherlock's phone very well: tall, strong, distinguished, and intellectually mature. He reclined back comfortably in his chair, with his hands clasped in his lap. His salt and pepper hair was combed smoothly, not a strand out of place. His dark charcoal eyes matched his suit, and were outlined in wrinkles that only complimented his authoritative appearance, as if he were a man that knew everything.

"Good morning, gentlemen. How may I help you?" he asked in the silkiest of voices. He had an American accent, a fact that John had forgotten, and was temporarily taken back by. Sherlock had not, of course, and wasn't surprised to hear it. He smiled politely at the man behind the desk, a smile that only John could identify as fake, and offered him his hand.

"I'm Dr. John Watson," he introduced in a gentle tone as they shook hands firmly. John snapped his head towards his partner and gave him the strangest expression, clearly not understanding what was going on. Sherlock only smiled his posed smile in return.

"And this is Sherlock Holmes, the detective," he said, gesturing to John, "Don't mind him, he's a bit socially awkward."

John continued to look at him as if he were insane, his eyebrows incredibly furrowed and his mouth open slightly in question. Bruce had, apparently, not picked up on the confusion and reached out to shake John's hand.

"Pleasure to meet you Mr. Holmes," he said and John finally turned back to the art director, but without much attention.

"Uh...yes," he nodded and shook his hand flimsily. Sherlock was still smiling at him, telling him with his eyes the plan that he had in mind.

_We switch roles so I can observe the surroundings,_his blue eyes seemed to explain. John responded with a frustrated expression, _we didn't get a chance to discuss this!_

_Stop complaining John. You know you are better at the preliminaries than me anyways._

The doctor sighed and shook his head at the patterned carpet, _Fine, whatever, so bloody stubborn. You know, partnership implies 50/50 decision making. No wonder people call me your PA._

He cleared his throat, preparing himself for his newly assumed role. He became straight faced. His attitude changed into one of disinterest and rudeness. He looked up from the carpet and focused on the prominent man in the gray suit.

"We are just here to ask some important questions regarding a current criminal case at the Galerie de l'art humane. Several bodies were discovered during the grand opening two days ago and our sources tell us that you were in attendance during the event. Please answer quickly and to the point, avoiding irrelevant details. We are busy men trying to catch a criminal so don't waste our time," the doctor told the man arrogantly. Sherlock smirked at John's imitation of him and then took this time to immediately zero in on his task. He slowly took a few steps back to integrate into the background, unnoticed.

Surprisingly, Bruce did not give "Sherlock" a look of despise, as most would. He didn't even appear shocked at the lack of cordialness in his manner. He let out a full laugh and grinned at him.

"I've heard that you are rather bold. You would be an excellent business man! Honestly, I wish there were more of you in this world. Cut straight through the formalities and to the purpose. That's how progress is made. Go on with the questions," he gestured at John to continue. John blinked away his shock once again and tried to quickly come up with something on the top of his head. He noticed the single swivel chair across from the desk and sat down without being invited, setting his shoes on the desk as Sherlock had earlier in Meredith's office. Bruce didn't seem to bat an eye at the gesture.

Meanwhile, Sherlock pretended to stand awkwardly behind his partner. Acting, as he assumed, John typically does in such scenarios. His eyes darted about the room observantly, but he disguised it as idle passivity. His eyes lingered on the bookshelf which had claimed his attention when he first entered the office. The shelves were mostly dusty except for one specific spot near the bottom, where a book had been removed frequently, a particular title that was nearly hidden.

_It's Never Too Late: A Book on Financial Revival_

John's voice mildly interrupted his thoughts as he questioned Bruce, "Did you, in fact, appear at the Galerie de l'art humane, the night of the opening. Two days ago?"

"Yes, I did," he responded simply. Sherlock glanced at the art director briefly to make sure he hadn't observed his subtle snooping. The man behind the desk was fully invested in John's questions however, so Sherlock proceeded.

His eyes traveled to a painting behind Bruce's desk. His eyes glinted with discovery.

"Uninvited?" John asked accusingly.

"Yes, I came on my own accord," Bruce agreed with a nod.

"Why?" came John's instant response, attempting to be intrusive and interrogative with his delivery.

"Because I was curious about my competition. I was hoping the gallery wouldn't be as well credited as investors were expecting. My own gallery is currently under renovation. I don't want to lose my good title while construction is in its finishing stages," he said honestly, unclasping his hands and raising them from his lap to show how open he was.

Sherlock's eyes traveled downward to the man. He took this time to examine Bruce's suit more carefully.

_His jacket is deep charcoal, but his trousers are midnight gray. They are designer but they're not part of a set, because they were bought on discount. His shoes are cheap and scuffed from use, but he doesn't buy a new pair. He thinks he can budget there. He thinks that no one will notice. But who would notice? There are the slightest indents in the carpet where the chair John is sitting in was previously positioned. It's been in that position for a long time because there haven't been any recent appointments. This man has no business. Yet, the furniture in the room is expense. He is trying so very dearly to hide his bankruptcy from the eyes of others._

"I see," John said indifferently, "How long has your gallery been under renovations?"

"A year," Bruce responded, but there was a slight edge to his voice. Both John and Sherlock noticed it.

"That's quite a long time," John stated, implying with his tone.

Bruce sighed, "Yes...if it wasn't for the incompetent workers, it would have been finished nearly six months ago."

His expression suddenly turned darker, as if a shadow passed over his thoughts. His forehead creased, his eyes hardened, and his lips formed a flat line. Sherlock noticed the way the muscles in his hand tensed and twitched with pressure. The man tried to hide them subconsciously under the edge of the desk.

Sherlock observed another peculiarity. It was a small but noticeable mark on the desk, that had caught his attention, and now, it seemed like incredibly vital information.

It was a divet, a deep scar, on the face of the mahogany surface, just on the right side of the desk where Bruce sat, as if he had taken a sharp object and violently dug it in. He had not replaced the table afterwards, perhaps because it was such a pricey piece of furniture, so it remained as a permanent reminder.

_Lashes out in fits of anger, _Sherlock thought to himself, _Perhaps that mark was made in reaction to a very specific trigger. Hm...the loss of his business?_

The art director's darkened eyes traced the scratch fleetingly and then the heavy mood was suddenly lifted.

"Any other questions gentlemen?" he asked calmly once again. Something about his smooth voice almost made John shudder. It was too eery, too soft.

"Yes," Sherlock spoke before his partner could. He was much more gentle than usual as he spoke, friendly even, as he imitated John's typical professionalism.

"Do you know Leo Christanza?" Sherlock asked kindly. Bruce blinked.

"The artist? Sadly no, I have never met him," he smiled apologetically. Sherlock gave a fake smile in return.

"Thank you for your time. We will have more questions later when the victims have been identified," Sherlock explained, "Sherlock, we better head to Scotland Yard now."

"Right," John nodded, understanding his meaning. Sherlock made his way to the door and held it open for the doctor. However, his partner didn't know that it wasn't for the sake of a polite gesture, but for the purpose of sending one last glance at the painting above the art director's desk.

…

"Wait, where are we going?" the blonde asked curiously. Instead of calling a cab to go to Scotland Yard, the consulting detective retied his scarf around his neck and began walking the streets briskly. John stuffed his hands in his pockets and kept up with his partner. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought.

"Don't ask questions if you already know the answer John," was Sherlock's only reply.

"Right," John sighed. _I suppose if I have to guess, Bruce's art gallery._

John's assumption turned out to be true as he watched Sherlock pull out his phone to check the article on Bruce Hartford's art gallery, searching for the address. As soon as he found it, he slid his phone back into the pocket of his black coat and continued. Ten minutes later, when the mostly glass and steel building came into view, the partners began to slow down their speed.

"That's it," Sherlock told him, nodding to the cubelike structure. They stopped as they reached the front. The large glass windows were covered in semi-transparent tarp from the inside, blocking their view of the interior. On the ornate glass door entrance was a sign, formally describing the process of renovations going on at the location, and an apology for both the closure and the noise. Sherlock gave it a critical look as he examined it.

He listened for a moment and noticed the dead silence, which seemed strange considering it was 10 am on a weekday.

"C'mon John, let's see the back," he told him, with suspicion in his tone. The two men made their way down another street to access the alley behind the gallery.

The alley was wide and mostly empty, yet coincidentally, the loading area at the back of the gallery was blocked off by a series of large industrial sized skips.

"Deadend," John commented, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No. We are going over, this is obviously an intentional barricade. It's odd...not even the construction workers would have access to this entrance."

John laughed, clearly hoping the crazy man wasn't serious.

"Going over? Let me guess, I have to boost you up right?"

"Precisely," Sherlock responded, waiting by the green skip expectantly. John sighed lightly, his shoulders rising, then falling gently in defeat.

He walked to where Sherlock stood, and bent down on one knee, locking his fingers to create a step. Sherlock braced himself by grabbing the doctor's shoulders, and slid his shoe into the support he created. With a grunt, John pushed upward with his arms and his body, allowing Sherlock to grab the edge of the dirty green skip with his right arm, and then with some effort, his left as well. Suddenly, John felt nauseous and disoriented, his arms quivered and gave way, causing him to let go of Sherlock's foot and stumble backwards.

"John!" Sherlock cried, trying to grasp the metal surface with his arms, his chin digging in and his feet dangling without stability beneath them. John hunched over attempting to catch his breath while the consulting detective clambered to push himself up.

His heartbeat sped up. He gritted his teeth with determination and eventually hoisted the upper half of his body over the edge. He wiggled forward until his entire body disappeared over the top. John took in deep breaths and eventually reorientated himself.

"Sherlock are you alright?" he gasped out, "I'm so sorry! I honestly...I don't know what happened."

Sherlock grumbled as he looked down at his friend.

"Fine. I just overestimated your strength apparently. For a military man-" Sherlock started.

"Hey!" John interrupted.

"If I wasn't suffering the aftereffects of being _drugged_-" He shouted, his face growing red with frustration.

"Stop shouting and get up here," Sherlock commanded. John huffed and got up on the bottom edge of the garbage container, reaching his arms up for Sherlock to grab on to. His partner offered him his hands and he latched on to them. The consulting detective struggled to pull him up.

Finally, both flatmates made it to the top of the skip.

They took a moment to catch their breaths, and then Sherlock jumped down on the other side, John following. The loading area was empty, no equipment, no lorries, no sign of construction taking place. It was not a very surprising fact to learn.

Sherlock's features became critical as he approached the back door of the loading area. He noticed that there was a thin rectangular cut out at the top of the steel door, where a window provided a view in.

"John, I regret to say I need you to lift me up once more," he told the doctor.

"You've got to be kidding me," John muttered but begrudgingly acquiesced, following the same process as before and interlocking his hands. Luckily, he didn't need to raise Sherlock more than a foot so he could briefly peer through the window.

Sherlock looked around the inside of the gallery and immediately learned all he needed to know.

"It's empty," he told John, after he returned to the ground, "He must have taken the art to storage, and there is no sign that construction ever took place. They just emptied it and put up tarps. Our friend Bruce just made the suspect list."


	12. Chapter 11: An Ominous Adventure

Thank you reviewers N. and abutterflymind! As well as my new followers and other readers. Consider this chapter the beginning of part II of the story. The rest of the story will mostly take place in a new location in a fictional town called Cresmere. If you are ever interested about the real life crime that inspired my story (although loosely) let me know and I'll send you the information. It's quite interesting.

Estella Jean

* * *

They entered Lestrade's office and were automatically surprised by the detective inspector's sour mood. His hands gripped in his hair as he frowned down at a stack of papers, which now covered his desk, the paperwork resulting from the previous day's arrests. John closed the door behind him and the inspector looked up as he heard the sound.

"About bloody time you arrived," he growled at the men. Sherlock seemed unfazed but John instantly felt guilty that they had not gotten to Scotland Yard right away.

_I knew I shouldn't have followed Sherlock on that decision!,_ the doctor thought to himself as he saw Greg's face redden with frustration. The consulting detective noted the dark circles under his eyes. He had rarely seen the man wound up so tightly.

"We're sorry Greg. On our way here we questioned a suspect. It took awhile longer than we thought it would. How did the stakeout go last night?"

Lestrade rubbed both palms over his face and groaned into them. As if in response, the door to the office opened immediately, and Sgt. Donovan walked swiftly in without a word upon her entrance. She didn't appear as put together as usual. Her eyes also sagged with exhaustion, her nails were bitten to stubs, and if you squinted you could almost actually see the steam of rage rising from her. She sent a hard glare to Sherlock as she passed, then tossed a folder on the top of the stack in front of Lestrade. He removed his hands to see her and was met with an icy look.

"Your reservations. Sir." she spat with intensity. Without asking if there was anything else he needed, she stomped out of the office and closed the door behind her a little too harshly, making it rattle in the frame. The air was tense for a moment, but it started to lighten again slowly in the wake of her departure. Lestrade sighed in exhaustion and surrender.

The detective inspector looked back to John.

"Does that answer your question? She and Anderson waited all night for the buyer to show up at the wharf, and I waited here on standby."

Sherlock furrowed his brows, "He never showed up?"

"No. Someone must have tipped him off somehow that the exchange wasn't happening. So the real criminal is still on the loose. At least we have a lead on the killer, that's why I called you down here so urgently. The victims have been identified," he paused and began looking through the stacks for the correct folder.

"Where did I put it?" he muttered with irritation as he rustled through them. He sorted through various papers, even knocking a few to the floor in the process. John quickly came to assist him by picking them up.

"I just had it!" he exclaimed and became more frantic with his search, causing a few more sheets of paper to flutter downwards. The doctor handed him the fallen papers, and noticed a folder underneath the inspector's coffee cup, labeled victim profiles.

"Uh…" John uncomfortably pointed to the folder and Lestrade froze as he realized. He cleared his throat, swallowing his embarrassment, as he slid the folder from under the mug. He frowned at the ring of liquid staining it, and then handed the information to Sherlock.

"Right," Lestrade mumbled, scratching the back of his neck, wondering when he decided to use the new reports as a coaster.

Sherlock flipped open the yellow folder and began reading through the reports.

_Annie McCray_

_Age: 23_

_Ethnicity: Caucasian_

_Height: 5'7"_

_Last place of residence:_

_Wheatley Terrace_

_38 Ellis Lane_

_Cresmere Town_

_Copeland_

_CA25 6TW_

_Cumbria_

_Declared Missing Person since 18th September 2014_

_Deceased since September 2014_

_Last contacted 15th September 2014 by her mother Grace McCray on the phone._

_Last known location: Her place of residence_

_Cause of death: Asphyxiation by potassium cyanide poisoning_

He turned to the second report curiously.

_Rebecca Larson_

_Age: 34…_

_Then the next._

_Amala Bassi…_

_And the next._

_Tina Kellerman…_

He decided he had read enough and handed the folder to John to look over. He looked to Lestrade, understanding the urgency he had for them to arrive there earlier in the morning. The women were all from the same town, and had gone missing within the same time frame.

"You already made reservations," Sherlock observed. John read the reports with concentration and was quickly following along.

"Not for me. I had Sally make them for you and John. I have to stay here at least for a few days to get this mess back in order. Not only that, I have a press conference tomorrow about the case. You know how those are," Lestrade sighed, his face pulled into a grim expression at the thought, "and it doesn't help that the lady from the gallery has practically written me a script for it. She really does not want the wrong information out, that's for sure."

Sherlock smiled at the knowledge, Wonderful! There's nothing better than a fascinating murder to myself...

"When do we leave?" he asked eagerly.

Lestrade glanced at his watch, "Two hours ago," he responded.

"We still need to pack," John reminded both of them. Sherlock sent a dismissive wave.

"Ten minutes at most," Sherlock argued and grabbed the folder from the doctor, giving him a look of excitement as he did. John rolled his eyes but smiled at his unusually good mood, secretly feeling the same desire to find out more about the mysterious town. He turned to Lestrade and held his hand out to receive the plans Sally had made. Lestrade transferred the information to him and within minutes they were calling a cab to get back to the flat.

…

John discovered that packing was a difficult task indeed. It would be easier, for one, if he knew the duration of their trip. They might be gone for two days, or two weeks, but that range was incredibly widespread when taking into account how many pairs of socks to bring.

"Hey, Sherlock!" he called to the curly headed man who was currently recording the effects of the drug that he gave to himself and John the night before. An experiment which John had discovered, was not actually for the case at all, but part of another research paper with Molly.

Despite what the chipper woman might say, John was firm in believing that it wasn't at all important enough to drug him involuntarily, especially when they were already in the middle of working on a case. He had made Sherlock agree to no more on the side work, after all, they needed all their concentration centered on the killer.

Sherlock finished logging the rest of his data and finally responded by shouting up to his flatmate, "What John?"

"How long do you think we are going to be there?" the blond yelled down from the top of the stairs.

Sherlock began calculating the length of the average case in his mind, setting down his journal among the rotting food on the kitchen table. _Typically,_ he decided, _they take between 6 hours and 48, depending on their level of complication. We have already taken one day however, just to find the thieves, our destination is 5 and a half hours away, and there are seven unaffiliated victims._

"Not enough data John!" Sherlock replied at last. He heard a faint dejected huff come from the stairs.

_Perhaps I should make him some tea. That might be a good gesture, considering how relatively understanding he was about becoming my unknowing test subject. He usually gets so upset about that sort of thing. He's becoming desensitized, I think. Yes, tea would be nice._

Sherlock resolved to make his flatmate the comforting beverage, pushing back from the cluttered table to look for the special blend stored in the cupboard, that he was sure would put him in a more positive disposition. It was a concoction Sherlock himself had developed, a flavor combination of black tea, hazelnut, rose, cinnamon and caramel. As the kettle heated water, and he filled the tea strainer with the blend, he pondered over the case.

_It is hard to imagine someone bloodthirsty enough to murder seven women, intelligent enough to sneak the bodies into an art gallery for display, and yet inexperienced enough not to know the biodegradability of jute rope. The killer is brutal, but cunning, patient, yet not thorough, absent minded in a way for not considering the details. Yet, everything else was performed smoothly._

_...or perhaps not. Perhaps, there were other small details that he overlooked, other loose strings so to speak, Sherlock considered, as he poured the water from the steaming kettle into John's mug._

_How did he manage to get the bodies in the gallery? Perhaps the art heist was distracting us. We know how the thieves got themselves in, with the temporary power outage that they created. Was there some other sign of a break in, previous to that point, that we could not distinguish, something so skillfully undetectable that we looked right past it in the security video? Or, it could have happened after the art thieves entered. Lestrade should have the video double checked for tampering just be sure it was not edited over._

_Another interesting point, Meredith is so very concerned about this suspicion people seem to have about someone at the gallery being 'involved' in the crimes, almost as if she knows for a fact, that someone was. It is therefore possible, that someone at the gallery, maybe even the security officer, assisted the killer with the display of the bodies. Although, he did appear entirely too dumb for that to be true. What about Cara, Meredith's assistant? I should have John look into those people more, in secret of course, for if Meredith knew we were taking those accusations seriously, she would most likely have us kicked off the case._

_I can't imagine a greater tragedy than leaving the most interesting case I've come across in years, to the hands of Lestrade. _

Sherlock furrowed his brows in concern over the thought, dipping the strainer in and out of John's tea, watching the wisps of darkened liquid swirling in the cup. He began thinking of John, imagining which jumpers and checked shirts he might be packing at this exact moment.

He finished steeping the drink and removed the strainer, beginning to carefully carry the mug upstairs, so as not to spill it. The floorboards of the stairs creaked under his barefeet and he memorized the smoothness of the wood. When he was halfway up, John appeared in the doorway of his room, alerted by the sound of Sherlock's footsteps. He noticed the mug in Sherlock's hands and gave him a look of pleasant surprise, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smile. Something about that moment was very still and quiet, one of the typical soft silences they experienced in the flat which complimented the passionate determination involved with their work.

The curly headed man looked at the cup and back to John with slight confusion, as if there was nothing at all unusual about him bringing the doctor tea, slightly defensive even, of John's expression of surprise.

"I brought you tea…" Sherlock said stiffly, reaching the landing and now on the same level as John. He said it as if it was a simple, insignificant fact, like stating the time of day, or the weather.

John grinned and chuckled at him, "Yes Sherlock, I see that. Why?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if being accused, "Why must there be a 'why'? If you don't want it-"

"No! I do, thank you," John interrupted, taking the mug from his flatmate. Sherlock seemed satisfied by the action, his stiffness beginning to dematerialize. He couldn't help but look inside the room behind him, noticing that John's entire bed was covered in clothing, namely socks. He furrowed his brow and John caught on.

"What?" he asked.

"Do you really think you need that much clothing?" Sherlock questioned quizzically. John shrugged at him as he looked over the pile.

"We have no idea how long we will be gone. Better to be prepared."

"I find that offensive, John. You of all people should have more confidence in my capabilities. We can't be gone that long. I'll be done with this case in three days at most," Sherlock told him with an assuringly confident glint in his eyes. John had his doubts, but he gave his partner a half-smile in agreement, anyways.

"Alright, three days," he echoed.

His partner nodded in agreement and began retreating down the stairs.

"That was kind of you for the tea," John told the distancing form thankfully.

The doctor breathed in the smell of the liquid and smiled, feeling the steam wash over his face. It's that one special tea that he sometimes makes, he pondered. He was about to take a sip when a thought occurred to him. He looked down at the tea suspiciously.

"Wait...it's just tea in here right?" he called down to the living room which Sherlock had now disappeared into.

There was a moment of silence which made John wary, but finally Sherlock responded with a definite reply, "Just tea John!"

…

Sherlock waited in the rental car outside of the flat for John to come with the remaining baggage. He was eager to get on the road, tapping an insistent rhythm on the steering wheel. He huffed impatiently and look outside the car window, examining the people walking on the pavement on the opposite side of the street. They didn't carry umbrellas today, and the ground they treaded was not puddled or glassy. He looked up and saw the sky was mostly blue, except for a few delicate clouds which occasionally drifted by.

Thankfully the storm we had yesterday has not returned, he noted. Although he loved the rain, he admitted that it was not the best condition to be driving in, especially when in a hurry. He checked the time on his watch, becoming even more anxious when he found that both hands pointed to twelve. He stared at the door of 221B for several more minutes, starting to weigh his options.

_Would I be risking more leaving John here and dealing with his wrath later, or waiting and missing the chance to find vital information?_

An image of an angry John popped up his head.

_It might be in my best interest to wait a little while longer._

At last John appeared through the door with several bags, and behind him stood Mrs. Hudson with a worried expression. Sherlock sighed, knowing it was most likely the reason for his partner's delay. From what he could tell from John's slight annoyance, their landlady was nagging at him for something or other. John opened the door in the back to store the bags and Sherlock was able to hear their conversation.

"I just worry John! I can't help it. That's very far away, you don't know when you'll be back and Lestrade won't even be with you! Anything could happen."

John chuckled as he hoisted another bag into the back.

"Dear Mrs. Hudson, we will be perfectly fine. We've been in more dangerous situations in the past, you know that."

This did nothing to dissuade her worried expression. She rubbed her hands together in anxiety.

"I suppose," she agreed, "but seven people murdered John!"

John shook his head and turned around to face her. He put his palms on her arms and held her in place to reassure her. She took a deep breath, grounding in the support.

"We will be fine," he said firmly but gently. Mrs. Hudson nodded in defeat, patting one of his hands.

"Alright, just...remember to call and of course take care of Sherlock please," she said, looking over to the man in the car. Sherlock gave her what he hoped would look like a comforting expression, but mostly turned out eager.

"I will," John promised "By the way, Molly is coming over later so could you let her in for us? And if you don't mind too much, Sherlock left the kitchen table a mess...maybe if you're not busy you could throw that stuff away while we are gone."

Mrs. Hudson gave him a disapproving look in response. He laughed slightly.

"I know! Not our housekeeper, but just this once, since we will be gone."

"Okay, John. Just this once," she assented with a smile, "Now you better get going. Sherlock might drive away without you!"

She gave him a hug and reluctantly let him go. He shut the door to the back and walked around the car to the passenger door. Sherlock started the engine and breathed in steadily again, now that they were truly ready to leave.

Mrs. Hudson still stood on the pavement beside the car, giving Sherlock a sad wave of goodbye. He was just about to pull away from the curb when he remembered something. He rolled down the window which made Mrs. Hudson give him a questioning look.

"Don't look in the fridge until Molly has left!" he told her urgently. The woman was clearly unsure of what he meant, giving him an odd amused look, but nodded anyways, waving again as they finally departed.

As they began driving down the London streets, the spring sun suddenly shining on their path, Sherlock scoffed to his passenger, "I don't need taking care of."

John look over to his friend, noticing the concentration on his features as he planned their travels in that fantastic mind he possessed, his blue eyes tracing the streets out like a human map. He felt a whisper of a smile creep up as he watched him.

"Yes you do," he said, then focused back on the street.

Sherlock said nothing in response but looked over at John every so often, trying to discover his thoughts, and never quite succeeding at the task.

The partners were just at the very break of an ominous adventure. They could both feel it, just beyond their grasp, just beyond the horizon of the road.


	13. Chapter 12: A Long Long Road Trip

Sorry for the wait everyone! I've been combating writer's block. I wrote this chapter several times and in pieces so hopefully the end product is good. As always, thank you for reading. N. it's not the end, but the beginning of part 2! Don't worry I'm not even half way through the story. Thanks Diddlepie, your reviews are very encouraging :)

Estella Jean

* * *

John lounged in the passenger seat partway reclined, staring out the window pleasantly.

Initially, it seemed fairly relaxing to him to ride with Sherlock, as they left the urban areas and entered the rural ones. He admired the grasslands they passed, a nice change from the structured buildings and grid like populated streets of London. He felt inexplicably content next to his friend, eased by the warmth of the noon sun and his cozy jumper.

Originally, their conversation and the scenery were both smooth and somewhat therapeutic in nature. Sherlock explained his current experiment, which John tried not to be bias towards despite being used as a lab rat for it the night before. The doctor couldn't help but tune out the more complex points of his explanation, but nevertheless, found that what he was attempting to do was interesting. Or maybe, it wasn't even the experiment he found interesting, but the glowing in Sherlock's blue analytic eyes as he told him in that low mesmerizing tone.

"You see, it appears as though the effects of the drug were present in the victim because he caused the machinery accident at the factory, allegedly due to a sudden loss of motor skills, but it couldn't have been possible because you and I, with the same amount of blood alcohol content as he did at the time, and yet a much lower body mass index, didn't experience it for approximately eight hours...are you paying attention?"

The man suddenly paused, his eyes narrowed in examination, his cheek bones distractingly noticeable as he looked over his blonde partner. John was simply staring at him the entire time he had been speaking, a barely there smile, softening his features.

"Hm? Oh yes! Very interesting," he lied, having stopped listening nearly five minutes ago. His partner's critically narrowed eyes had not changed however.

"You stopped listening didn't you," he accused.

John's face reddened. He broke eye contact and shook his head slowly.

"No..." he said a bit too self consciously.

"You're lying," Sherlock stated, returning his eyes to the road. John scoffed with a teasing smile.

"And how would you know that?" he questioned challengingly.

Sherlock smirked at the roadway, entertained by John's predictability, "You always hesitate when you lie. Sometimes just before you respond, sometimes mid-response. You talk slower, like you're trying to search for the right words."

Sherlock noted the silence and gave his passenger a quick curious glance. He was looking out of the passenger window, shaking his head with a small smile that Sherlock easily identified as his 'I've been caught' expression.

"Whatever," John shot back in a joking tone, embarrassed about the truth of his transparency. A transparency which infiltrated all aspects of his life it seemed.

**. . . **

They rode in silence for awhile, but as usual with the two men, argument and tension were inevitable, and soon childish quarrels began to interrupt the quiet of the vehicle.

John yawned and stretched his arms, the action nearly startling Sherlock, who had not expected to see sudden movement in the corner of his eye, John chuckled at his jumpiness and decided to follow through with an idea he had been holding since they reached the M40 motorway.

"What are you doing?" the darker haired man asked, quirking an eyebrow as he watched John carefully unfold a map he had retrieved from his bag in the back.

John scanned the lines with his eyes before raising them to his partner.

"Reading a map," he said simply.

"Clearly," Sherlock said sarcastically, "But we have a satnav."

John snickered as he looked at said device, mantled on the rental car's dashboard.

"Yeah well it lags, surely you of all people could sense that," he told Sherlock, gesturing to the glowing screen. Sherlock's face changed, thinking over John's point. Yet, his partner knew from the gleam in his narrowed eyes and his tense expression, that he was being stubborn and was about to fight him on the subject, probably because he had specifically asked for a car with digital navigator and felt a sense of confidence and control in operating it.

"It doesn't lag," he said as if it were ridiculous, glancing at the paper map with a wrinkled forehead, "And who even uses maps anymore? I thought they stopped printing them in the nineties."

"It does lag," John tiredly responded, not in the mood to argue about it.

"It doesn't _lag_, John. I don't know what you're talking about," he told his partner.

"We'll see," John shrugged and folded the map back up.

A half an hour later the pair decided to find a place to eat before continuing their journey since both men were feeling a bit drowsy. If anything, the stop would at least allow them to stretch their legs and give Sherlock a break from driving.

"You know there is a really good restaurant in Birmingham. A girl I used to date told me about it once," John suggested. Sherlock hummed in thought.

"Which one?" he asked curiously.

"I think it was called Anderson's Grill. Or something similar."

"What an unfortunate name," he gave a look of disgust at the thought of his rival, "But I meant which ex girlfriend."

"Uh…," John rubbed a hand over his face in thought, "I think she was blonde...might have had a K name…Karen, maybe Kelsey...yeah I can't remember."

Sherlock smiled slightly to himself, finding it funny that John could remember the name of a restaurant he had heard mentioned once, more than he remembered a girl he had had a relationship with.

He watched as John searched for the address on his phone and entered it into the satnav. It was only ten minutes away.

"Looks a bit pricey," the doctor noted, but it was more of subtle way to ask Sherlock's opinion.

Sherlock gave a nod of understanding, "Might as well dine in style. We've been in this car for 2 hours after all."

John smiled, thankful that his partner had agreed. From the menu options online, it looked amazing, not to mention the images of the restaurant portrayed an ambient and intimate atmosphere.

Nearly ten minutes had passed and the satnav still hadn't given them any verbal command. John noticed Sherlock's furrowed brows as he stared at the device and realized that it was frozen.

"Oh," was Sherlock's only awkward comment, not wanting to admit being wrong. John scrambled to look at the map and determined they had almost reached the exit.

"Sherlock we are about to miss it! Get over now!"

Sherlock dangerously crossed lanes of traffic to reach the exit in time, causing John to close his eyes shut and swear out of panic. The blond wondered silently if fine dining was really worth risking his life.

Luckily, they arrived at Anderson's safely and were able to calm down over their gourmet meals and warm surroundings. Sherlock was relieved to take a break from driving considering how long it had been since the last time he had driven such a long distance. He found comfort in his cup of tea and delicious seabass and so did John in his linguine.

When they returned to the rental car, the consulting detective gave John a look of acceptance and pressed the off button on the satnav, finally agreeing with his offer to ditch the device. Since then John was in charge of the map, a task which gave him a feeling of dutiful pride.

Something about Sherlock delegating responsibility to him always made him feel strong and invigorated. It seemed like ever since this particular case began, Sherlock had been entrusting him with more vital tasks, from questioning Meredith and Bruce, to finding the electrician. Each time, John secretly challenged himself to do twice as much as Sherlock expected, to always astonish him by going beyond. After all, Sherlock was always astonishing him with his miraculous deductions, and If it weren't for his ambition and determination, people would continue to assume he was nothing more than Sherlock's "live in PA", a term he greatly despised. He would be nothing more than a person existing to do Sherlock's bidding, when obviously he was so much more than that.

_I'm not his "PA"_, he would think, _Flatmate, yes. Best friend, I hope so. But I'm also_ _his partner dammit (in a professional sense), and he needs me. I can't even remember all the times I've had to save his life when solving a case. I've had to protect him since the first day we met._

**. . .**

An hour after they returned to the motorway, tensions began to escalate again, and Sherlock's driving was entirely to blame.

They passed the rolling hills of the countryside too quickly, the green of one crest, blurring into the next. Trees merged into a single streaked form. The speed they traveled on the curved road caused the vehicle to careen around turns in a sweat inducing manner. It made the doctor nervous, he shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat, looking to the driver periodically in hope that he would notice.

From the sideways looks Sherlock returned, it was apparent that he did understand John's worries but chose to ignore them.

"You're not going to slow down are you?" John asked with an aggravated sigh.

"Nope. Not really planning to," was Sherlock's rude and absolute response.

Instead of reducing his speed, he hoped to distract his partner from protesting by hitting the button for the radio, which filled their heads with white noise static.

"Find something John," he ordered him in hope of changing the silent subject.

John agreed, if only to get his mind off of Sherlock's reckless driving habits and sudden sour attitude. He turned the dial till he found a clear and audible station, and a familiar sounding love song echoed through the car. It was soft and not entirely unpleasant to the ears, but the lyrics were incredibly sappy.

Sherlock responded with a sound of disgust.

"Sentiment," he uttered while screwing up his face in annoyance.

John shrugged, not arguing with partner's opinion.

"Alright," he mumbled, changing the station again. Most of the stations were scratchy but suddenly out of the monotony of the high pitched buzzing, to their dismay, a modern pop song blared out of the speaker and filled the car with a cacophony of noise. The abrupt intensity of volume and nauseating tune threw both men in a temporary disorientation.

"Oh John, please, no!" Sherlock exclaimed with desperation, swerving the fast moving car in his state of disruption, throwing his passenger partway into the driver's seat.

John pushed himself away from Sherlock and groaned at the sound infiltrating the small space. He quickly scrambled to turn the radio off, realizing that it caused more stress than relief on his nerves, now that Sherlock was not only speeding but swerving as well. The so called music stopped and both men let out a breathe that they had been holding in, thankful for the silence again.

"No more radio," John told his partner breathlessly.

Sherlock nodded in response, eyes wide from the startling fiasco. _At least_, he resolved, _I am completely aware of my senses. If drowsiness or tunnel vision was a problem, it isn't anymore. _

"Are people going tone deaf?" He exclaimed as the car returned to its respectful lane and his driving stabilized.

"I definitely think it's a possibility if this is what's popular," John laughed in agreement and nervous relief.

"The chorus is the same three words repeated, two of which are profanities, to a god awful beat. Sentiment is one thing, but this rubbish? Brahms would turn in his grave!"

John laughed at the truth in Sherlock's sudden heated speech about the depravity of pop music, but also at the passion with which he argued.

"Alright, alright," he chuckled, "Calm down Sherlock. We don't need you driving any more carelessly than you already are."

John winced as the car came around a bend much too quickly, causing Sherlock to drive partly in the shoulder and dangerously close to a grove of trees.

"My point exactly," John gasped with more controlled panic in his voice this time, clinging to the armrests of the seat. He half hoped they would nearly hit something, just so his partner would take his concerns with gravity. Luckily Sherlock did take his comment seriously and eventually resolved to slow down to the posted speed limit. He looked to John as if to seek approval and John replied with a thankful nod, his muscles relaxing back into the seat.

"I'm just trying to get there relatively soon," his partner explained. John scoffed with an edge of amusement.

"Relative to what?" He asked incredulously, "Do you mean relative to the estimated time of arrival provided by your broken satnav? Then trust me, you don't need to worry. We are nearly fifteen minutes ahead of schedule."

"Perhaps but I'm still trying to make up the time we lost when you were chatting with Mrs. Hudson while I waited in the car for half an hour," he shot back.

John scoffed, "Half an hour? Try ten minutes you impatient arse."

Sherlock blinked and looked over at John almost critically, then felt a smile threaten his features as John's sassiness humored him. His partner smiled too and chuckled at their childish fighting.

"I can't believe you called me an arse," Sherlock told him.

"You deserved it! You know how worried she was."

Sherlock laughed at that statement, "She is always worried. I just hope she doesn't open the fridge before Molly gets the body out."

John also laughed at the thought of the poor woman finding the corpse in place of their food items, then instantly felt guilty.

"I warned her about that thankfully," he explained and Sherlock seemed grateful to hear it. He knew if she had discovered his experiment, he would never hear the end of it. If there was anything to fear in their line of work, it was an upset landlady.

**. . .**

After the radio of terror, their trip was mostly filled with a comfortable, mutual silence, as many people often slip into during long drives. Sherlock watched the road ahead but from the way his eyebrows slightly furrowed, John could tell his partner was deep in contemplation of the case. He often chose quiet moments to lose himself in his work. It was reflexive, unavoidable.

John didn't feel the desire to think about the case yet, perhaps because of their exhaustive focus the day before. For the doctor, this road trip was a brief chance to rest, one which he highly valued, because once they arrive at their destination, who knows when they would get such a chance again. With that thought in mind, the doctor stared at the scenery in a daze, feeling himself drift into unconsciousness.

"Are you ever going to tell me what you are thinking?" John teased softly with a small smile, watching with half opened eyes as Sherlock blinked in surprise at the mental interruption.

"Just be patient. I need the chance to be alone with my thoughts so I can come up with leading theories," he explained.

John was slightly offended by his partner's statement.

"Well I could help you come up with leading theories. I might not be a genius but I am actually quite smart," he countered defensively and yawned out of sleepiness.

"I don't doubt that," Sherlock told him, looking over at his partner with an unusually sincere look in his eyes that persuaded John to believe him. It gave John a fuzzy feeling which only made him more tired. He nodded, and curled up in his seat, feeling his heavy eyelids pull him into sleep.

**. . .**

John lazily opened his eyes, blinking as Sherlock's form materialized beside him. At first he remained quiet, watching his friend drive, wondering what he was thinking of. His curls shined in the afternoon sunlight and his eyes glowed an even brighter blue than usual.

_How is it that he looks even better in these moments?_

"Feeling rested?" Sherlock asked without looking at him. John smiled, not even surprised that he had sensed him awaken.

"Yep," John told him and adjusted himself to sit up, putting his chair in an upright position. He rubbed his eyes and noticed something he hadn't before about his friend. Sherlock had dark circles under his eyes, probably from exhaustion and concentration.

"Do you need a break?" John offered. Sherlock appeared reluctant at first but eventually conceded. They took the first exit they approached and switched places in a carpark, then John returned them to the road.

Sherlock closed his eyes but remained awake as John drove. Memorizing every bump and turn they encountered.

"John, you're not going the speed limit," he mumbled.

John looked over at his partner and saw his closed eyes, amazed that he could tell that just from the feel of the car on the road.

"Sorry, I'm going five miles under. I know you're in a hurry."

Sherlock hummed and nodded his head slightly. John smiled at his tiredness and followed through with his request. Five minutes later another interjection came from his curly haired flatmate.

"You're following too close to that car."

John looked over at him and saw his eyes were now half open, staring at the car in front of them. He sighed and slowed down again, although the doctor didn't actually believe he was following too close at all.

"Fine," he said with a little annoyance in his tone.

John drove silently for awhile, Sherlock presumably asleep because he no longer mumbled criticisms. The sun had disappeared behind overcast clouds, leaving the grassy hills on either side of the car grey and dull looking. There was an eery serenity to the landscape. Mountains in the distance were peaked in snow and fog and thick trees lined the road. They loomed around them, pinning them in. Some trees were still bare like skeletons reaching out from a lush dark green background. John couldn't help but find it absolutely beautiful.

"John, you're going too slow again."

To the doctor's surprise, Sherlock was suddenly awake and staring at him with a critical expression.

"Sherlock, stop critiquing my driving or so help me I will drop you off on the side of the road. Anyways, we are almost there," John threatened. Sherlock grumbled something but did what John asked. He crossed his arms and scowled out of the passenger window.

Soon the distant mountains were no longer distant. They climbed the heights through a sharply winding road, occasionally glimpsing patches of white snow among the dark rocky cliffs, which were crudely cut from the sides of the mountains. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at a shimmering shape hidden between these cliffs and grove of ancient looking trees. It appeared to be a lake, but as soon as he saw it, it was gone again, swallowed up by it's shadowy surroundings.

The mountains seemed almost dreamlike, something seen before but very faintly. It made John feel dazed, disoriented.

"Strange," Sherlock said, looking over to John. He nodded.

"Very strange," he whispered.

They went down in altitude again, following the turning road in its decline. The cliffs became a faraway scene in the rear view mirror and the naked trees began lining the straight road again. It was hard for them to estimate how long they drove that flat road, because every stretch of it appeared the same as the one before. Eventually the tree line broke and their vision of their surroundings returned. Around them were more bare hills and green fields, and as they left the gloom behind them, on the side of the road, a sign greeted them to their destination.

_Welcome to Cresmere_

They entered the front street, watching as they drove by the quaint brick buildings, one after another, many with beautifully historical architecture and colorful shutters. While some came to victorian style peaks and had stained glass windows with intricate patterns, others were more simplistic and Georgian in style with plain uniform stuctures. In between buildings of flats community gardens began sprouting spring tulips and other delicate flowers, creating a charming country feel to the relatively small town. Specialty shops sold anything from Cresmere souvenirs, to cheese, wine, baked goods, and boutiques filled with local designer clothing. Families with small children walked the pavement, holding hands underneath hanging plants that hung from the streetlamps. A young boy with his mother excitedly looked through the window of an ice cream shop, grinning at the flavors inside and a towering stack of waffle cones.

John was surprised that such an atmospheric historical town existed just beyond the dangerous mountain range they passed through recently. Even Sherlock seemed in awe of the sudden change in environment. Then it dawned to the consulting detective quite impactfully. _This town, this near paradise vacation spot, was where seven people were murdered. _

"The crime rate here must be so low," John commented, reading Sherlock's mind, "It's odd isn't it. That this is where they went missing."

"It is. It makes it that much more fascinating," Sherlock grinned, content with the new element of bizarre that it offered the case.

The fact was, it wasn't the number of people killed that interested him. It wasn't the case's current fame in the news. It was the criminal's sense of style. He put so much thought into how to kill the victims, how to make them into something so gruesomely artistic, that the motive for his actions couldn't be anything less than incredibly intriguing, and now knowing how picturesque his hometown was, this motive caused ever growing curiosity.

"Do you have the address for the place we are staying?" John asked his passenger. Sherlock unbuckled himself and reached into the back seat for his suitcase, unzipping the first compartment to retrieve the folder Lestrade had given them. They followed the included directions, continuing through the town and over a bridge which carried them above a small lake, the water sparkling despite the mostly cloudy sky above.

_It looks like something from a postcard, _John thought admiringly. The rest of the town past the bridge seemed even larger than they had expect. Some buildings were four stories tall with partial balconies, and the main street contained more businesses. There were estate agent companies, a local newspaper, a small print shop, and on the corner of one street was the business they were seeking.

_Elementary Books_

_For the Omnivorous Reader _

It was a bookstore located in half of the ground floor of a two story building, sharing the other half with a women's clothing shop. The entire wall of the ground floor facing that street was covered in large window panels, showcasing the goods inside both shops. John pulled around into the alleyway between the building and the one beside it, where a few parking spaces were marked beside a skip and a loading area for small delivery lorries. He was so relieved to turn off the engine finally, signifying the end of their five and a half hour journey. John and Sherlock exited the car, thankful to breath in the fresh air.

However, they only had a minute to stretch before having to unload the car. Sherlock did most of the work since John had been the one to drive last, handing his bag to him before retrieving the others. Together they toted their two bags and a single large suitcase through the alleyway and around to the front side of the store. As they passed the long windows, they took notice of the book display featuring bestselling books and the shelving units in background which never seemed to end. They reached the glass door labeled _Elementary Books_ and Sherlock resolved to be the first one to enter. When he opened the door a bell jingled to alert of their entry.

The partners waited a moment for the owner to greet them but the room seemed silent and vacant. Sherlock sent John a confused look and the doctor returned it.

"Hello?" John asked, but the men were alone with the dust in the room and the smell of crisp book pages and leather covers. Sherlock ventured farther, walking to the right side where the counter was. John shifted the large bag on his shoulder and uncomfortably followed his partner.

"Hello!" Sherlock called impatiently. John turned around to see if anyone was behind any of the shelving units, perhaps asleep in the maroon armchairs in the back, but no one was. Meanwhile, Sherlock walked past the counter and into the backroom hidden behind a silky curtain. He noted that there was a fireplace and cozy reading nook filled with haphazardly stacked books. It smelled of freshly brewed exotic teas.

"Oh dear, oh dear, OH DEAR!"

Sherlock jumped back from the room as he heard the cries of distress. John's heart began to race as he ran towards the counter where Sherlock stood.

"What was that?" He asked panickedly.

"It came from upstairs," Sherlock replied quickly, his head spun around, eyes searching for the stairs, they were located in the back corner on the right side of the store, past the back room with the reading nook. Without a second thought, he dropped the bag and suitcase and dashed up the narrow wooden stairs, hearing sounds of loud clanging from above. John was close behind him, wishing he had hadn't packed his gun away.

Above the stairs was a hallway which was covered in floral pink wallpaper, it led to a messy living room and two doors branching from the left and an open doorway through which was a kitchen. Plumes of smoke gushed from the open area and instantly Sherlock held his nose and ran through it to the source.

A petite brunette woman stood over a skillet that was engulfed in flames, holding a bowl of water above it, just about to tip it onto the fire.

"No!" Sherlock screamed and leaped at the woman, pushing her onto the floor. Both of them coughed as their lungs filled with smoke and John ran towards the cupboards. He rummaged through them quickly, finding a hand towel, and running it through the tap. He squeezed it out a little and ran back to the hob, turning off the heat and throwing the towel over the burning skillet. The fire extinguished and the three people let out a deep sigh of gratitude.

Once Sherlock caught his breath, he got up from the floor and held his hand out to the woman who was now soaked with water, the glass bowl broken into pieces.

"Don't _ever _put out a grease fire with water_,_" Sherlock told her sternly, looking into her wide green eyes and fear stricken face.

"I-I'm so glad that you came in when you did! I'm so sorry," she said as she got to her feet. She looked down at the mess on the floor and the skillet with scorched grease crusted to the sides.

"Oh my," she mumbled thoughtfully then giggled a little, "I suppose I'm done with cooking as my hobby of the week!"

"I would highly advise staying away from it," Sherlock agreed.

She laughed and nodded, brushing a piece of hair that fell from her messy bun behind her ear, then held her hand out to Sherlock.

"I'm Penelope," she told him with a jolly grin, revealing her dimples.

"Sherlock," he responded, looking down at her hand uncomfortably. John gave him a warning look and he finally took it in his. She grinned even wider as she shook his hand a bit too energetically.

"Ouch! Oops sorry. My finger," she exclaimed and retracted her hand quickly. The men noticed a large bandage on her pointer finger. She turned to John and held out her left hand this time.

"I'm John Watson. What happened to your finger?" John asked considerately and with a friendly smile as he shook her delicate hand.

"I was cutting an onion and ended up cutting off the tip of my finger. I had to have it reattached actually. I guess I should have known then not to continue with the whole cooking thing. That's alright my food was awful anyways!," she laughed sheepishly. She noticed the shocked looks the men gave her and cleared her throat.

"Right! So you probably don't want to hear all about me," she smiled apologetically, "I bet you came here for a book. I will let you pick out any of them for free since you saved me and my bookstore...and emergency services from having to come here again."

"Uh well-" John began.

"They will only come here ten times a year now. I've already called them six times and it's only March so please don't feel bad about it. In fact, you can take two books each!" She insisted, holding up her hands to prove her point. John and Sherlock smirked at the interesting young woman and gave each other a look of mutual humor.

"But Penelope, we didn't come here for books. We are your renters," John explained.

An expression of realization transformed her glowing smile and a blush of embarrassment darkened her cheeks. Her hand flew up to her forehead in memory.

"Sherlock and John! Oh, psh, yes I totally forgot you were coming today. Let me help you with your bags and show you to your room. It's on the second floor," she explained. She removed her stained apron, and dropped it to the floor with the broken glass and puddle of water, stepped over the mess, and then gestured with her hands for the men to follow her back down the stairs.

"What a woman," John mumbled with a snicker. Sherlock chuckled too and then they trailed after her.


	14. Chapter 13: Happy Unbirthday

Happy New Year! Thanks for reading and reviewing! Sorry for the small break. I was busy with holiday stuff and trying to seek inspiration. Abutterflymind thanks! And yeah Penelope is also me cooking. Her clumsiness is modeled after me a bit :P And thank you Anonymous reviewer who gave me the motivation to get off my butt and write this chapter.

Estella Jean

p.s anyone else excited for the Christmas episode?!

* * *

The room Penelope led them to had the same floral wallpaper as in her flat except in a soft yellow tone. There was an electric fireplace on the left, a very ancient looking armchair, a shallow balcony, a forest of stacked books creating a labyrinth on the floor...and only one bed.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows drawn together in concern, "One bed? Is this a joke?"

They turned to Penelope but she appeared flustered, her cheeks reddening by the second. She had clearly not expected this to be a problem.

"But you said that one bed sounded appropriate…" she stuttered awkwardly, shifting her feet and looking quite like a child.

"No we didn't," John began before a frustrated looking Sherlock exploded, "We didn't even know the plans until after they were made," then he stopped himself as he realized. A low chuckle came from him, but not an amused one, an aggravated one.

"Donovan," Sherlock spat the name. He began pacing around the room with rage, his expert feet easily finding the spots of carpet between the stacks of books, "She's not even human. That woman is-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, "There's a lady in the room," he reminded him.

Sherlock gave an annoyed look to the girl and then let out a sigh, silently cursing Donovan instead.

_Just wait until I get back to London_, he thought grimly.

Penelope tried her best to find a solution to the uncomfortable problem but she didn't have anything else for them to sleep on unless it was the ground or the armchair.

"I have a sleeping bag if that helps any," she attempted, "and that armchair does recline..."

The three turned to look at the mentioned armchair, angled between the window and the fireplace. It was so filthy that it was almost brown but Sherlock could see that at one point it was white. The style hadn't been popular for several decades and while the whole 'vintage is in' position still holds true, this had passed fashionable vintage and entered the 'put it out of its misery' zone. _It's her grandmother's, _he concluded.

Even Penelope shared the same slightly disgusted look as the men, wrinkling her nose at the furniture.

"Well I'm sure John would love to sleep there. He knows that if I don't stretch out at night I end up with a sore back in the morning," Sherlock said quickly.

The consulting detective then proceeded further into the room, lifted his suitcase onto the bed and began unpacking. John watched him carefully unfold his shirts on the duvet possessively and knew the time to protest had already passed, but he hadn't even known when. He sent a disgruntled look to the back of his curly head.

"Well that's great then!" Penelope said positively, "So I was planning on making you dinner tonight, but...well that didn't really work out. We're going to have to go out to dinner. There's a tavern downtown that has really good sandwiches-"

"Sounds perfect. Well let's go John," Sherlock said, cutting her off. He walked rigidly over to his friend and began tugging his sleeve toward the door. John planted his feet firmly and gave him a shameful look.

"I'm sure _Penelope _would like to come too. Would you like to join us Penelope?" John asked her politely. Her face glowed with excitement.

"Really?" she asked to be sure she was not imposing.

"No not really. We have work to do," Sherlock practically growled.

"Sherlock can I speak with you for a moment," John requested, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration and embarrassment. Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked closer to his flatmate.

John cleared his throat and looked up into his blue eyes in that commanding way he always did when Sherlock was in trouble.

"This woman is very sweet and she is our host for our time here. We deserve to treat her with respect and if you refuse to, then Penelope and I will go to dinner and you can stay in the room and sulk about," he threatened.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John but said nothing.

"Alright," John told Penelope cheerfully, "Ready to go then?"

…

"So you're actual detectives?" she asked with wide green eyes, spoon mid way from her bowl of soup, mouth open in amazement. They had followed her recommendation to eat at the popular tavern in town which did indeed serve amazing sandwiches.

John chuckled at her excitement and nodded.

"Well, technically no. He's a consulting detective and I'm just his partner. We assist DI Lestrade, who will be here in a few days to work on the case."

"Assist," Sherlock scoffed, poking his salad around his plate, "We practically do his job for him."

Penelope raised her eyebrow at the brunette and then looked back to John, speaking confidentially over the table.

"He's a bit of a grump isn't he?" she whispered.

John sighed and shook his head slightly, "You have no idea Penelope."

"I'm not a grump," Sherlock snapped, "Everyone else is just too...happy."

"You're a grump," Penelope told him, "But tell me about the case John! I've always wanted to meet real detectives. You have no idea how many mystery novels I've read! The Big Sleep, Rebecca, the Woman in White, practically every Agatha Christie and Dashiell Hammett book."

"Sorry Penny-"

"Penny?" Sherlock muttered snarkily at the sound of the nickname.

"-But we're not aloud to talk about it with anyone," John broke the news to her and took a bite of his ham sandwich, savoring the flavor. Penelope dropped her spoon in her bowl, clearly no longer interested in soup when such a captivating conversation was at hand.

"John, you simply can't do this to me! You have to tell me! I promise I won't tell a soul. I'm good at keeping people's secrets. Once my friend Jeannette told me-"

John smiled and shook his head, "We _can't. _We promised the lady we are working for. What if I tell you about some of our old cases."

She stuck out her lip in a pout but conceded with a sigh, "Alright, fine."

John told her about their first case together, A Case in Pink. When he got to the point where Sherlock and the cabbie were in the room playing russian roulette with a poison pill, she was hanging off his every word.

"Please tell me you saved him!" she exclaimed.

"I'm sitting right here!" Sherlock growled.

"Shhh!" she told him absentmindedly with a wave of her hand in his direction.

"Sherlock was just about to put the pill in his mouth. The arrogant git predictably fell for the psychology trick, believing he was smart enough to choose the fake. I was staring at him, screaming his name, but he couldn't hear me."

"Why?" she gasped.

"Because I was in the wrong room. I was stuck looking at him through the window but no matter how loud I screamed he couldn't hear. So I took my military gun and shot the cabbie through the window."

"Yes! Wait, did you get caught?"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, "I covered for him. I hadn't seen him but I could deduce it was John easily. I made up an elaborate story that led suspicion away from him, but knowing Lestrade, they wouldn't have been able to figure it out anyway."

Suddenly Sherlock's ears picked up on something and he turned around in his seat. The light from the tavern's fireplace lit up his curious eyes. The other two continued talking but he was no longer in the same world. He had just found a surprising clue in the case and was instantly thankful they had decided to listen to Penelope's dinner recommendation.

"What?" John asked, trailing off from his story when he noticed Sherlock's abrupt change. He knew whatever it was must be case related. He followed his partner's eyes.

Sherlock watched as the bartender served a beer to a man who had just walked in. The man thanked him and took off his gaudy orange wool scarf, noticing Sherlock's concentrated stare on him as he did so. He awkwardly waved but obviously did not recognize Sherlock.

"You're welcome Leo," the bartender told the man who Sherlock deduced was a regular and thus, a local.

"Leo Christanza," Sherlock mumbled, swinging around to look at John with eagerness. It took a minute for the gravity of this revelation to settle into John's mind.

"Leo? The artist Leo?"

Sherlock nodded, "Precisely."

He turned back to stare at the man drinking his beer.

"That cannot be a coincidence," he said with a low tone and narrowed eyes.

"Jooohn, please tell me what's going on!" Penelope begged. Sherlock gave him a look and John knew they needed to get back to the room so they could discuss this new twist in private.

"Sorry Penelope," John told her, "We need to go."

…

Sherlock was once again pacing back and forth between the stacks of books in their room. He accidentally knocked over a stack of cookbooks but it didn't slow his stride at all. John sat in the ancient armchair, watching Sherlock's motion, and trying to think about what this meant to the case.

"I knew there was a connection between them," the consulting detective muttered.

"Excuse me what? What connection?" John interrupted his thoughts, his forehead creased in confusion.

Sherlock stopped in front of him, his eyes wild.

"Isn't it obvious!" he shouted, bringing his arms up dramatically, then returning to pacing.

"Um, no. It isn't," John said frustratedly.

The curly headed man stopped in front of the armchair again.

"Bruce!" he shouted.

John churned this around in his mind, rubbing his hand over his forehead.

"Bruce and Leo?" he asked finally.

"Yes! Please John catch _up._"

John formulated the best theory he could. _Art director out of business. Famous new artist. Uh...Leo went to Bruce for a job and then he turned him down, only to go out of business soon after because of the bad decision?_

"Leo went to him for a job...and he didn't hire him?" he tried.

Sherlock shook his head, "Not necessarily. For all we know he might have worked for him before Meredith. But when we were in Bruce's office there was a painting above his desk that was unlike the others. It was one of Christanza's."

John seemed taken aback from the information, even offended. He looked at Sherlock with anger on his features.

"Exactly when were you going to tell me this?" he snapped.

Sherlock ignored him however and continued pacing.

"As of now, those two men are our top suspects. Bruce has the motive, Leo has the access. If the two have any kind of alliance formed they could have been capable of sabotaging the gallery with the crime...though I don't know how the women are connected."

John hadn't listen to his partner's mumbling and was still focused on the fact that he had been withholding vital information from him.

"You are unbelievable. 'Keep up John,' you say but then you don't bloody tell me anything. Have fun with your theories. I'm going to bed. We need to wake up early anyways to go to the police station first thing tomorrow."

John got up, brushing past Sherlock to grab a blanket from the linen cupboard by the bathroom, then took one of the pillows from the bed.

"Goodnight," he grumbled as he curled up on the reclined chair, turned makeshift bed. He turned off the reading lamp beside him, leaving Sherlock in darkness.

The doctor sighed as he got positioned comfortably and prepared to sleep. He didn't know where Sherlock had gone but was too annoyed to care. _He can stay up all night with that stupid genius mind of his if he wants. It's fine with me. I'm going to sleep._

Rustle. Rustle.

John groaned, hoping his partner would finish whatever he was up to and leave the room silent again.

His wish was granted and a few minutes later the room was left in glorious silence. John started to drift into unconsciousness.

And then the violin music started.

…

"How did you sleep?" Sherlock asked over their breakfast. They had gone to another restaurant on Penelope's advice. This one was much pricier than the last however.

John cut up his lox and cream cheese crepe violently, looking up at his partner over dark circles and a menacing gaze. Sherlock sat up straight eating his eggs benedict as if there was nothing wrong.

"Really?" John asked unamused.

"Oh John you can't stay angry at me," Sherlock smirked.

"Watch me," the doctor replied and stabbed a bite of his massacred meal.

"You're not really upset. You're just being stubborn. I know you too well John," he smiled.

John was even more upset by this. He found it infuriating that Sherlock knew so much about him. He was always under examination. The waiter came by to clear their plates and Sherlock stopped him before he left for the kitchen.

"It's my friend's birthday today. Could you get him free dessert?" he asked.

"Of course," the waiter agreed without suspicion and went away.

Sherlock grinned at him.

"Will you stop doing that! People don't even have dessert for breakfast," John groaned, feeling deja vu from their night at Angelo's.

Sherlock frowned, "Why not?"

John looked at him disapprovingly but couldn't really find a good explanation.

"Because it's just a social rule. And clearly you don't understand those."

"Clearly I don't _care,_" Sherlock rebutted, leaning his chair back, still smirking.

John scowled at him until the waiter returned with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. There was a candle in it and a swirl of chocolate on the bowl reading 'happy birthday John'.

John fought the smile that threatened his lips. He was stubborn. He was stubbornly holding on to being stubborn.

"Don't worry it gets better," Sherlock told him. John wondered what he meant until the chef and two more waiters came up to the table and began singing happy birthday in robust italian accents.

Sherlock swayed to the tuned and John couldn't help the laughter any longer. The whole restaurant clapped as the partners teared with amusement.

"The catch is you have to share," Sherlock told him as he dipped a spoon in the ice cream.

"Silly rule," he mumbled before taking the spoon in his mouth.

"Agreed," John chuckled.

The Cresmere police station was small, as was expected for a small town. It was located only a street away from the place where they ate breakfast so they were able to walk there. As they neared the brick building, Sherlock abruptly stopped. Outside of the police station was a telephone poll covered in pictures of young women. The pictures had been up for a very long time. They were tattered, wrinkled, and smudged by the rain. Some were in an unrecognizable condition.

Sherlock frowned at the papers and began ripping them off. John felt a pain in his chest as he looked at the smiling faces of the victims, back when they were filled with life. It was hard to imagine these faces becoming the gruesome 'wax' statues from the gallery and from the horrific dream he had the night they were assigned the case.

"Sometimes this is a tough job," John said softly.

Sherlock said nothing but nodded silently. He didn't have much of an emotional spectrum except for the few people he called friends, but by the way he gingerly held the papers as he removed them, John could see there was a flicker of sadness inside him. He was never quite as concrete as he acted.

Sherlock threw the papers in the trash bin on the street and then the partners walked the three steps up to the police station.

The station was cramped with desks that were pushed much too close together but it was warm inside and rather cozy compared to the sterility of Scotland Yard.

"Can we help you fellows?" an officer holding a cup of coffee asked as he leaned against one of the desks. Sherlock walked over to him.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. This is Dr. John Watson. We are working with DI Lestrade from Scotland Yard on the art gallery case," he explained impatiently.

"Oh yes, the detective inspector called yesterday morning. Thank god you're here. We've been kind of at a loss with this case. As you can imagine, murder isn't a typical thing around here," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked tired, not in a physical way, but in a mentally drained way. He was a young man, in his late twenties, Sherlock judged. Yet, the wrinkles under his eyes told a story of a life of stress.

"We'll do whatever we can to help. That's why we are here," John smiled. The officer smiled back.

"I'll let the sergeant know you're here."

"Alright," John nodded. The officer disappeared

Sherlock's eyes scanned the papers on the walls, the profiles created on the victims, but they contained no new information than what he had received from Lestrade. His eyes trailed to John subconsciously and he noticed from his posture and resting expression that he was no longer upset, and the exhaustion which seemed apparent earlier had dissipated. He gave him a peculiar look when he caught him staring. Sherlock didn't know how to respond so he returned his peculiar look. This is how they appeared when the sergeant arrived, a slightly graying man with defined dimples when he smiled.

"Sherlock! John!" He greeted them with hearty handshakes as if they were old friends.

"I'm ."

"Nice to meet you," John said kindly.

"Yes, alright, we've gone over the niceties. Now let's get on with case. We have seven emotional families to see. Let's get it over with," Sherlock groaned

John sighed and immediately apologized for his partner's behavior which was practically an automatic reaction. Grady didn't seemed phased at all by Sherlock's rudeness, which made John breathe easier.

Perhaps the day wouldn't be too awful. Perhaps.


	15. Chapter 14: Annie McCray

The following entries detail the interview process regarding the friends and family of the homicide victims.

Entry One: Annie McCray

We entered the home of Grace McCray at 10:00 am, Grady having called her ahead of time. We settled to discuss the information surrounding Annie's disappearance and murder. Grady began with preliminary questions, which we already had documentation of in the initial interview from the time of the victim's disappearance. He reviewed the previous general questions for the purpose of mentally prepping the victim's close relative for the recurrent memories, since mothers have been proven to take the death the hardest. Basic information was requested, such as the victim's date of birth, physical description, and the last contact made with the deceased...

Hold on, no, this is terribly boring. Sorry Sherlock, but 'brief factual description' or not, this is going on the blog later and no one would want to read this rubbish! Let's start from the beginning.

Since our first introduction to Sgt. Grady, I have yet to see the man show any expression other than one of cheerfulness. Not only that, it seems he isn't capable of anything but goodhearted conversation. While driving over to Grace McCray's house, he told me stories of the fishing trips he'd been on, rather boring stories, but I was enthralled with them because they were simple. Simple is something that's hard to come by when living with the world's _only _consulting detective. After all, I can only hear about experiments on unidentified fungus for so long before I start losing my sanity a little.

Sherlock was silent in the back of the car but made no snide remarks which I was thankful for, yet suspicious of. He typically makes some sound of protest or random interjection when forced to endure a 'dull conversation'. I was praying that he would continue to spare me from his usual embarrassment. I sent looks to him in the back of the vehicle but was surprised when I noticed his genuine interest in the topic of fishing. Since when did Sherlock care about fishing, of all things?

I stifled a chuckle at his studying eyes and observant ears as they trained on Grady. He caught me staring and pretended he wasn't listening, looking out of the window with an air of indifference.

Typical Sherlock, irritatingly guarding himself, obscuring the genuinity of his character so that those who know him less are fooled by his facade, even for such silly things as fishing, as if it mattered. Between you and me, dear readers, I find it more infuriating than the fungus experiments and all the other bizarre elements of his nature.

Perhaps that is what Sherlock was envying about Grady, certainly not his tales specifically, but the genuinity of his character which he exuded unashamedly.

Although terribly interesting, the case of the mysterious madman, Sherlock Holmes, would have to be put aside for a later date. We had another case to solve first.

We approached the home of Grace McCray, a small yellow house with an attractive tulip garden bordering the path to the porch. It was located in a popular neighborhood of Cresmere according to Grady, an area where newlyweds and retired couples settled. The fact was further proven by the elderly couples and small children milling about the pavement as we parked the car by the kerb. The porch twinkled with windchimes as we climbed the steps to the front door, Grady in the lead.

The sergeant rang the bell and seconds later a woman opened the door. She appeared exactly as her daughter's profile, only older. In other words, she was quite beautiful, although plain. She had the same chesnut hair, but partially grayed. The same blue eyes but cornered with crows feet. She leaned against the door and wrapped her open cardigan tighter around her floral top, attempting to smile through the very evident pain she was feeling.

"Hello, Grace! I see the tulips were a success!" Grady greeted, gesturing to the colorful flowers.

"Hello Sgt. Grady," she managed to say without enthusiasm, her voice wavering at the end.

"This is Sherlock Holmes. He's a detective from London assisting with the case," Grady told her, motioning to the curly headed man.

"I'm Grace. It's nice to meet you," she told him quietly.

"Mutual," he responded dully, "This is John my colleague."

I smiled at the woman and offered her my hand. As soon as our palms touched in a handshake, I noticed she was trembling, on the verge of breaking down emotionally. I felt sympathetic to the poor woman, but attempted to appear positive as Grady did so naturally. We separated and she nervously welcomed us in. We entered the small yet warm home which had soft lavender walls and an entry hall that was narrow, too narrow for the desk placed along the wall opposite of the front door. We were forced to walk one at a time as she led us to the kitchen, but I noticed Sherlock behind me, as he stopped by the awkwardly placed desk.

"Um, mind if we look around a bit," I asked her politely. After all, Sherlock often goes rooting around through people's drawers and cupboards when investigating and it would be better if we at least had permission to do so first.

"Go ahead," she said weakly. I faintly heard her talking with Grady and it sounded as if he were consoling her through her tears. Clearly she was not prepared to go through the questioning process again, not that I could blame her. She had only just gotten the news of her daughter's murder the previous morning, and that would still be crushing even with six months of preparation for this moment during her disappearance. Back then there was at least some hope of her returning, vague but still resilient hope. Now there was certainty that she was never coming back.

I watched as Sherlock examined the photos on the walls near the front door, ones of Annie receiving awards throughout her childhood, of her graduation from college, and family holidays.

"Her father died when she was at a young age, approximately ten years old. Only the photos before that age include him," Sherlock observed.

"Her mother and him could have gotten a divorce," I noted.

Sherlock shook his head, "No, look at their expressions in the photos after that. They're trying to appear happy when clearly they are in emotional distress. Even the way they dress seems more plain, darker colors. It was a death in the family."

I hummed as I studied the photos and realized he was exactly right. When I turned around Sherlock had vanished down the hall.

"Sherlock! Where are you going," I whispered, embarrassed by his snooping.

I found him in one of the bedrooms, presumably the guest room, but it had been recently redecorated with what appeared to be Annie's belongings. Little knick knacks lined the bookshelf, pictures of cherry blossoms lined the walls, the bed was covered in mismatching pillows and quilts. The extra belongings from her flat which did not fit in the room, were left in their packing boxes along the floor.

"She was obviously hoping her daughter was still alive," I commented. Sherlock nodded and began examining the space in closer detail.

A few rather cheesy quotes were framed on the bookshelves, as well as a collection of glass animal figurines.

"She collected these as a child," Sherlock revealed, "They are more dusty than the other items. They weren't put here recently but have been here for years. She must have left them when she moved out and her mother kept their position here in her old room."

Then his eyes followed to the photos on her desk, depicting the victim in her teenage years, typically posed with large groups of friends. Medals and awards for various sports and academic achievements also resided here.

"It seems her mother is resorting to remember Annie as she was as a child. It's a coping mechanism. Keep that in mind John," he explains before we exited the room.

That's something quite unique to Sherlock I believe. Whenever we are sent to interview a person he gages their mental state first. He believes bias lead to lies. It's rather smart, especially when there aren't too many people close to the victim that we can compare the answers with. We entered the kitchen where Grace had led Sgt. Grady, and found them sitting next to one another at the table. Grace had calmed down, no longer crying, but stared quietly into her tea. Sherlock and I sat down at the other empty chairs which had steaming cups in front of them as well.

The sergeant had begun the interview process, starting with preliminary questions first, then moving on to more informative ones. Sherlock didn't seem satisfied with his work, but then again, he was rarely satisfied with anything. He impatiently tapped his fingers on the table as they went over the already documented information. Grady noticed his impatience but only smiled at Sherlock in his usual way, which seemed to irritate Sherlock even more, causing him to send a sarcastic smile back. Apparently Grady doesn't get sarcasm because he continued his task with even more chipperness.

"What personality did Annie have? What were her characteristics, her values?"

Grace sighed and gathered her thoughts, "Well...Annie was very kind. She loved animals. She had many friends, good friends...She could be so childish sometimes...playful, like she never really grew up."

She smiled at the memory, and I wrote her response in my journal, keeping in mind what Sherlock said about the mother having a selective memory of the victim in a child-like state.

"Where was she currently working at the time of her disappearance?" Grady questioned, looking up from the paper he was reading off.

"She worked at a clinic in town, as a nurse," she explained.

Sherlock sighed and then sat up a little straighter, finally intervening. I gave him a concerned look, knowing that at such times he forgets how sensitive the interviewee is. It would be just like Sherlock to send the woman into tears again.

"Anytime before her disappearance, did she show any signs of unstable behavior, gambling, stealing, drug usage?" Sherlock asked critically, his eyes narrowing at the woman, "Do you think she could have been involved in anything risky that might have gained her enemies or debt?"

Grace looked at him and then Grady, in shock that he would ask such a question, "Annie? Oh no, Annie was a good girl. Everybody loved-"

"But she might have kept secrets," Sherlock interrupted, "Everyone keeps secrets."

Grace glared at Sherlock's insinuation, finding it offensive.

"She was a good girl," She repeated to Grady a little more sternly, "Always use to do the right thing."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked quickly.

She was taken back by his abruptness, "What?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. He scooted his chair a little closer to the woman, to examine her, as he continued.

"You said 'she always use to do the right thing', clearly you had a specific example in mind. I'm asking what you were referring too," Sherlock snapped, impatient with her stalling and emotional responses.

She balked to answer his question, suddenly flustered by his intensity in contrast to Grady's gentleness and compassion.

"Sherlock," I muttered, but he didn't make eye contact. I sighed. He wasn't going to listen to me.

"Tell me Mrs. McCray," Sherlock practically ordered.

She stumbled over her words as she answered, "Her boyfriend. Her boyfriend Michael was a thief. His manager caught him stealing at the store he was working at eight months ago and she broke up with him even though they had been together for years. I told her she deserved a more upstanding man, an honest man."

"Do you happen to have contact information for him?" I interjected for reference. There was a chance we would need to talk to him later on.

She had a disgusted look on her face as she responded, "He's in prison."

"Hm," Sherlock hummed. We shared a look of interest at this information.

The rest of the questions Grady took over, while Sherlock only half listened. He asked if Annie mentioned anyone around the time of her disappearance, other than her ex boyfriend.

"She mentioned catching up with one of her old friends, Jessica, who recently moved to America for an engineer program. She's a brilliant girl. I was very proud to hear how successful she has become," Grace smiled as she reflected on memory, "Jessica was really there for me after Annie went missing. She phoned me every week to see how I was doing..."

Grady smiled encouragingly at the improvement in her mood, and focused more of his questions on positive memories.

"Where did Annie spend her time? Besides work of course."

"She enjoyed going to the movie theater here in town, as well as the little shops, although she rarely bought anything. She came here on the weekends, that is...after Michael," she said the name as if it were poison.

Obviously she strongly disliked the man and it made me begin to wonder. Was she upset because of his criminal record, or did she dislike him before then? It sounds as if Annie was all she had after her husband's death. If she is that attached to her daughter, the idea of her having a serious relationship with someone, someone who takes up her time and becomes her priority, it would explain her animosity. Perhaps she was even waiting for an opportunity to separate the two. I smiled smugly as I recorded my theory. And Sherlock thinks I'm not good at deductions!

"Did she have any enemies from her past?"

"Besides jealous sports opponents, no. If you knew Annie, you'd know that she couldn't have gotten on anyone's bad side," she laughed a little.

"Did she have a sudden change in behavior before going missing?"

"Well," she thought, "She was stressed and busy with work at the clinic. By the time she would get home, she was exhausted, and her health started to decline. Nothing dramatic, just a cold she was struggling with. She was depressed after the break up. Most of her friends no longer live in Cresmere, so she relied on me for conversation and support. She came over crying a few times, towards the end, because she missed him. I kept telling her she was better off, but it seemed like she didn't believe it as much as she once did. Loneliness does funny things to people... It makes them so...self sacrificing," she frowned and looked away, upset by the thought. I bet Sherlock would say she was reflecting on herself, more so than Annie. Grace was self sacrificing, dedicating her life to her daughter, to the point of determining her decisions for her.

"_Everybody keeps secrets"_

I am beginning to understand what he meant by that. Surely Annie didn't rely solely on her mother. There must have been times when she wanted freedom, upset by the way Grace controlled her. There must have been a side to Annie that Grace never saw. I added that question to my notebook, circling it, 'who was Annie McCray _really_?'

Nothing else of importance was mentioned, and it seemed, through her mother's eyes anyways, that Annie was a typical woman, a sweetheart through and through. The more I learned, the more I couldn't help the sick feeling in my stomach. She didn't deserve to die. None of them did. It made me bitter to think about.

After finishing our tea and saying our goodbyes, Sherlock and I retreated to the car, as Sgt. Grady remained speaking with Grace for a few more minutes, because once again the woman was crying. I watched her from the car window as she sobbed into the sergeant's shoulder.

"We need to stop wasting time and find the boyfriend," Sherlock said abruptly.

He didn't mean to sound cold. I know that. He just focuses on the job instead of the sentiment. What people fail to realize is that if he felt more, he'd be doing much less. It's one of the reasons he's so successful and effective. Together we are a team because we balance each other out. I teach him how to be understanding, and see through people's eyes in ways that can end up being beneficial. He teaches me how to focus on the facts and look deeper into common observations. I save his arse when he gets himself in some ridiculous jam, and he swindles restaurants to get me free stuff, although his motives are sketchy 50% of the time.

I guess you could say we have the ideal friendship.

...

An hour later we ended up arriving at the Haverigg prison, waiting while Grady spoke with the warden about Michael, Annie's ex boyfriend. The two of us sat in fold up chairs outside the office, in the awkward silence of the corridors. I didn't know what to say and apparently neither did Sherlock.

I cleared my throat, gaining his attention accidentally. His eyebrow arched in question and I shook my head.

"Nothing," I said awkwardly, adjusting in the uncomfortable seat.

"Oh," he mumbled and straightened his posture.

A guard walked down the empty concrete corridor, passing in front of us. We trailed him with our eyes, listening to his footsteps until they were gone and we were left without a focus once more. It's so silent in this prison. It's somewhat terrifying. I couldn't imagine someone living there for 8 months, and to think that some of the criminals we've caught in the past we've sent to prison for life.

"The criminal justice system is strange," Sherlock said as if in the middle of a conversation. I looked at him in surprise as he continued.

"Confinement for example, is a comfort to some and torture to another. For some, ten weeks in prison is the equivalent to ten years, and yet we try to standardize the sentences for convicts based on crime. Partly it's for deterrentism but the court claim it's for retributivism. How do they determine the scales of justice for an individual without knowing the psychology of his fears, his own self punishments?"

I blinked at him. I had no idea what he just spouted out, but it was rather deep and I didn't quite know how to respond.

"Right...well when normal friends try to start a conversation it typically doesn't go like that," I chuckled.

He furrowed his brows at me, clearly not understanding. I found it strangely endearing, that he saw our friendship as being so much more normal that it really is. If anything it shows just how new a relationship like this is to him.

"Tell me John, how would 'normal friends' begin a conversation?" He questioned.

I shrugged, gazing around the corridor again.

"Talk about your day, ask each other silly questions," I replied.

"But I've been with you all day," he pointed out.

I laughed, "Obviously, I suppose that one wouldn't work so well for us."

There was a pause and he hummed in thought.

"What constitutes as a silly question?" He asked finally.

I rubbed a hand over my face as I tried to come up with a plausible example.

"Like...what's your favorite color, the most memorable thing from your childhood, a type of food you've always wanted to try," I explain. He looked at me with this laughable expression and then gave me a single nod.

"Alright. What's your favorite color?"

"Uh, green," I told him.

He scoffed,"That is a pointless bit of information."

I laughed, "Yes, well that's why it is a silly question. Those are the kinds of things you're supposed to know about your best friend. Otherwise you're practically strangers."

I smiled at him, but he frowned at me in response.

"I know you, John," he said simply, "We don't need silly questions."

Oh yes, he knows how long it takes me to get dressed in the morning. He knows what it means when I drink one tea versus another, when I use a different brand of toothpaste than usual, but that is 'data' he keeps on everyone.

It was just then that Grady finally exited the warden's office. The three of us followed one of the guards to a visiting room where we could talk privately with the victim's ex boyfriend.

The room was bare with only a single table in the center, and a chair for each of us, plus one. Sherlock, Grady, and I sat down at the chairs and waited for the man to arrive. Less than a minute later another guard entered and with a prisoner in tow. The tall dark haired man examined us with curiosity and then a developed eagerness. He was placed in the chair opposite us and the guard retreated to the back corner to watch over safely.

"What's this about? Is it Annie? Has there been any news?" He asked quickly.

I think even Grady was frowning then.

I noticed neither of them looked like they were about to say anything so I took the responsibility.

"Uh, Michael," I began.

Back in my army days there were times when I had to tell a patient he wasn't going to pull through. It requires you to step outside yourself. You use _the voice_, put on a persona, as if you are an actor giving the news to a fictional character. It's not real, so it doesn't hurt to have to say it. You tell yourself this to make it easier, and you might even believe it, until you see their face change. You see their thoughts as they begin to form. In seconds they've lost their whole world.

"Annie's body has been found. It's been determined as a homicide case. She passed away about the time of her disappearance. I'm sorry," I told him calmly, conveying it as it is, an undeniable fact that must be accepted.

He stared at me, no, through me. His eyebrows drew together, and his mouth opened slightly as if to question something he already knew. Then his dark eyes fogged slightly with tears and he swallowed hard.

"I…" he tried to speak but couldn't. He let out a shaky breath and stared at the table.

"I knew it could have been a possibility...but I didn't want to think about it," he mumbled.

I looked at the man with sympathetic eyes, "I'm very sorry Michael, but we're here to help. My partner, Sherlock, and I are working with law enforcement on the case. We want to bring Annie's killer to justice. We need to ask you some questions."

He looked up with sorrowful eyes and nodded in acceptance. I smiled supportively and looked to Sherlock so he could ask the questions he had saved up.

Surprisingly he was speechless, giving me an odd expression of wonder. I would have laughed or made an amusing comment had it been a lighter situation. Instead, I nudged Grady, in hope he had something to ask. After all, we had gone all the way there to talk to this man.

That was all the encouragement that the dimple faced sergeant needed to become his usual self again. He got his notes out of his pocket and started reading them off. I took my journal out and began recording the conversation.

"When did you last talk to Annie?" Grady asked, sounding positive but less chipper than he was with Grace.

Michael took a deep breath and blinked away tears as he thought.

"About...eight months ago. It was just after my trial. She broke up with me then," he whispered.

"What did she say to you after the trial?" Grady asked.

"She said her mum told her she needs someone who's honest...a better guy than me. I knew what she was trying to do, so I interrupted her. I told her that I didn't do it, that I wouldn't steal anything, no matter how much I needed the money."

"You needed money?" Grady questioned. He nodded and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his uniform.

"Yeah, after I lost my job at the clinic Annie and I worked it, I got a job at this convenience store in town. It didn't pay very well, not enough to make rent."

"How'd you lose your job at the clinic?" Grady gingerly prodded, not wanting to delve too deeply into hard memories after the man was just given the news.

"They laid me off, couldn't afford keeping me on even part time anymore," Michael revealed.

"That's too bad. So you got a job at the convenience store, and you ended up here."

Michael nodded, a bitter expression on his face at the thought.

"One day I went into work and my manager called me into his office. There were two policemen waiting for me. They explained that I was under investigation for stealing money from the till, a lot of money."

"But you didn't do it?" Grady inquired.

Michael shook his head strongly, "I did not. I was framed, and I have a pretty good idea that it was my manager who did it. He harassed me ever since I started working there. When he gave me the night shift, I noticed that money was missing. I brought it up to him several times and he said he'd take care of it. Of course, I had no leg to stand on. He planted cash in my coat pocket in the break room so when the police investigated there was enough incriminating evidence… I had a choice. I could plead innocent and get an 18 month sentence or plead guilty and only get 12 months. I did what I had to. I didn't know...I didn't know what the cost would be…"

He put his head in his hands and became very silent, overwhelmed by everything he was thinking and feeling.

"Did you know," he muttered through gritted teeth, "That I was planning to propose to her?"

He looked up with tear filled eyes.

"I wanted to be able to support her, and I was so ashamed when I couldn't. I bet her mum never told you that she wanted children, very badly. Of course, she didn't approve. Why would she? If Annie had a family of her own, she wouldn't have time for her anymore."

He put his head back into his hands and quietly cried into his palms. There was a good point to what he had said. It was one of the hidden pieces of Annie that Grace had not shown us. She did have a life outside of her mother, the question was, what else was involved in it?

We sat awkwardly watching him until Sherlock became to uncomfortable by the emotional outburst, and pushed back his chair.

"We have all the information we needed for now. It's best if we left this man to his grieving," he muttered and three of us got up to leave. Michael was returned to his cell while we exited the building. I was very thankful for the fresh air again after the staleness of the prison.

"Well, what do you think Sherlock?" I asked the consulting detective. He strode thoughtfully beside me as we headed to the car, leaving Grady wheezing to keep up with our pace.

"I think lunch would be nice," he replied. I rolled my eyes and he chuckled.

"_And_ I think Michael is telling the truth. I believe he is innocent. Everything about his mannerisms, eye movements, tone of voice, and general emotional reaction suggest he was being honest. I don't think he showed any desire towards homicide, especially towards Annie. If anything he only seemed enraged towards his previous employer and Mrs. McCray, and that I cannot blame him for."

I agreed to all of his statements, particularly the first because it was already a half an hour past lunch time and I was ready for a break. Victim number two was next.

* * *

Thanks for the reviews everybody! This format is a bit different than usual. I wanted to try out John's point of view as if he were recording for the blog. I'm planning for each victim to have her own chapter, but in between their chapters, will be chapters in my usual format of John and Sherlock investigating other things about the case. I hope you enjoy it. And I don't know about you but I think the Christmas special was my favorite episode. I wasn't a big fan of the weird hallucination style in His Last Vow so I was skeptical about liking it at first, but once understanding this is how Sherlock's drug induced mind views the world, it was fascinating! Can't wait for season 4!


	16. Chapter 15: Claire De Lune

Sorry I haven't updated in awhile. School is stressful and I'm at the point in my story where I have to take things slow so I can plan it correctly. This is mostly a filler chapter but I'll post the next chapter very soon. I'm practically already finished with it. Tell me what you think. Also, I would like to point out an error in my story. So far I have been referring to Grady as an officer when his official title is Sergeant. I have fixed the mistake.

Estella Jean

Thank you so much for the encouraging reviews!

* * *

On the drive back from the prison John quietly smiled at the mountain range outside the window. Although it was very warm outside with the noon sun beating down on the land, the snow still remained on the upper peaks. It was unreal to see them towering so high, so natural and untouched. It reminded John of Sherlock playing Clair de Lune on his violin on a calm afternoon, soothing and subtly beautiful. He could imagine coming home to the sound after work and standing frozen in the doorway, afraid that the slightest sound would ruin the moment. Sherlock usually only plays like that when he's alone. It was such an honest and freeing song, a manifestation of all the things he does not wish to, or can't, express with words. Those moments were as indescribable to John as the stillness of their surroundings when passing through that larger than life valley. It was so sweet and gentle compared to the sinister scenery of the day before. The gray clouds had moved on for now, and revealed a soft shade of blue.

"And that was the time that I caught my heaviest trout," Grady proudly concluded one of his never ending fishing stories as he turned around a bend in the road, revealing a new set of cliffs.

"Very fascinating," Sherlock said in monotone from the back seat. He appeared incredibly relieved that Grady had finally finished, no longer tapping his hand on his knee to control his patience.

Grady, as usual, didn't take notice that his stories were brain numbingly dull and immediately started into his next story, "But then there was the time when Constable Timberly and I caught one of the heaviest catfish in Northern Italy, of course we had to throw it back afterwards. It was quite an interesting story actually..."

Just then, John felt his phone buzzing with a call. He pulled it from his pocket and the screen glared back at him with an unknown number. He looked at it with a puzzled expression, debating whether to answer it or not.

"Those catfish aren't actually edible because of the toxic matter they consume from the river-"

"Sorry, Grady, I have to take this," John told the driver, resolving that it was better to answer the call, if only to use it as an excuse to interrupt Grady from the next drawn out tale he was burdening them with. Sherlock looked visibly relieved again, giving John a look of thankfulness. He leaned forward in his seat to hear the phone conversation between his partner and the unknown second party.

"Hello?" the doctor greeted hesitantly, sharing a look of uncertainty with Sherlock.

"John!"

"Penelope? What's the emergency? Oh god, there's not another fire is there?"

Sherlock's eyes went wide at the thought, instantly concerned about the safety of his violin, which was lying vulnerably on his bed. The men heard laughter filter through the other side of the phone and let out a breath of relief.

"Of course not," she said cheerily, as if the possibility was much more ridiculous than it actually was, "I'm just calling to see how the case is going. Where are you? Have you found any new suspects?"

Sherlock and John shared a look of surprise and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Such a child," he muttered, "Is that her definition of an emergency?"

John laughed at his hypocritical judgement, especially when he saw how serious Sherlock was.

"Are you kidding Sherlock? You've texted me at work to say there's an emergency and all you wanted was someone to get you take out. Talk about a child," he scoffed.

Sherlock gave him a defensive expression and stammered to rebut the statement, "That was...different. Mrs. Hudson was out and-"

"Shh!" John shushed him and returned the phone to his ear. He smiled as he responded to Penelope.

"We're just crossing the mountains right now. On our way back into town to get a quick lunch. And no, we haven't found any new suspects I'm afraid."

He could almost picture her pout at the other end, which was then followed by a sigh of disappointment.

"That's too bad. I was hoping to hear about a car chase or something over lunch," she told him disheartedly.

Sherlock's forehead wrinkled with concern at the prospect of her meeting them. He shook his head severely at John.

"No," he said sternly. John frowned in response and Sherlock gave him a very critical look. John took the expression as a dare and of course invited her along.

"Great! I'll meet you at the park in fifteen minutes. I'll make us all sandwiches and we can have a picnic!"

John smiled at the idea and the look of desperation on Sherlock's horrified face.

"Sounds lovely Penny. See you in fifteen."

The blonde ended the call and looked to his partner smugly for having defied him. Sherlock flopped back into his seat and glared at John in the side mirror. Grady chuckled at his frustration.

"I don't know how you two manage to stay together with the way you argue. My wife and I split up after only three years, and we didn't fight nearly as much as you do," the Sergeant teased.

Sherlock groaned so loudly that John was too amused to correct Grady on the subject, finding pleasure in Sherlock's exasperation. The doctor was disappointed however when they began their descent back down the mountain range. Minutes later they came to the _Welcome to Cresmere_ sign, marking the end of the beautiful journey.

The park Penelope had told them to meet at was located in the center of town, and it almost stretched the whole length of it from where the bridge ended, to the edge bordering the forest. It seemed impossible to miss, but when the partners entered the town the day before, they hadn't even noticed it. Perhaps they were too focused on finding Penelope's bookshop, or maybe it was simply hidden by the gloom of the overcast sky.

It was a rectangular shape, lined with main roads on either side, decorated with trees, trellises, and budding spring flowers in landscaped mini gardens. It was more like a botanical garden than a public park. Grady parked the car in one of the visitor spaces parallel to the park and the main road.

"You two go ahead without me," Grady told them as he exited the car, "I have to go check in about something. I'll be back in ten minutes."

"Wait," Sherlock stopped him before he left, pulling him to the side of the car to talk with him privately. John furrowed his brow as he watched, but decided it must be important, and occupied himself with gazing around the park. At last, Grady disappeared across the street, leaving John and Sherlock to find the nearest acceptable picnic table.

Sherlock broodingly followed John as he picked out a nice spot to eat under a grove of trees beginning to blossom. The boughs were mostly skeletally bare, except for a few green sprouts, which would become flowers in a matter of weeks. He stood over the table and looked to Sherlock who was notably sulking still for being forced to endure Penelope's company. His posture was stiff and he showed no intention of sitting down.

"Was this truly necessary John?" he growled. John shrugged and sat down at the picnic table, expecting his friend to finally cave and join him. Eventually he did, but he jiggled his leg impatiently.

"I don't understand what the problem is Sherlock. We are having lunch! You said you were hungry."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at what he clearly thought was a dumb statement.

"It has been enough of a trial of my patience to deal with Grady's senseless ramblings this whole morning but now I have to listen to that detestably annoying woman as well?" he scoffed and looked away from John in frustration.

"Who's detestably annoying?" Penelope asked with a grin, approaching the table innocently in a lilac colored dress. Sherlock glared up at her and opened his mouth to respond but John sent him a look stern enough to halt him in his tracks. It was his 'don't forget I could break all of your bones if you dare push me into my military mode' expression. Even Sherlock wouldn't cross that line. He'd seen what John was capable of. He closed his mouth and only stared at her with an unpleased expression on his features.

"Srgt. Donovan. A woman we work with back in London," John replied, smiling at the woman, and then gave a solid glare to his arrogant friend. Sherlock gave Penelope a sarcastic smile, accepting agreement with John's answer.

"Oh, I see," she smiled, setting down the picnic basket on the table and sitting on the side opposite the two men. She sat there grinning at them as if reuniting with her long lost friends. She appeared so bright and delighted in the spring surroundings, that she was practically one of the flowers in the park herself.

Sherlock was uncomfortable with the way she kept staring between them with a grin, and tried to ignore her, examining a squirrel in the tree behind her, then a group of teenage girls giggling about something loudly as they passed. His blue eyes darted anywhere for something to deduce. He focused his observations on people walking around the park, couples, dog walkers, readers, lunch breakers. Everyone seemed to be out on the warm spring day, enchanted by the rebirth of nature after the winter season.

Meanwhile, Penelope also looked around the area searchingly, her green eyes wandering. She came full circle until she was back to the two men.

"Where's the Sergeant you said you were with?" she asked in confusion, "I made him sandwiches too."

"Oh, he's walking over to the police department to finish up some business. He'll be back soon," John explained.

Sherlock ended up scowling at a garden of flowers, categorizing them by genus and species in his mind. However, Penelope's attentive senses picked up easily on his focused gaze, and traced it to a particular flower.

"Iris unguicularis. The Algerian iris. It's a favorite of mine," she commented warmly.

Sherlock's eyes snapped to her quickly, looking her up and down calculatingly, as if he had never seen her before.

"How did you know that?" he asked in an accusatory tone. John chuckled as he looked between the two, sensing that Sherlock's stubbornness to dislike their new landlady was beginning to falter. Penelope scooted over the bench in front of him more, taking advantage of the small amount of closeness she was slowly gaining.

"I've learned all kinds of things from reading. You'd be surprised," she told him, leaning forward with her hands clasped in front of her. She nodded to the flower again.

"You know these flowers are rare around here, and they are some of the only flowers to bloom so early in the spring."

"Yes," he said simply, looking at her critically, and reevaluating his deductions of her. She gave John a secretive wink, proud of her accomplishment, and John responded with an encouraging smile.

"Well Penelope, what have you been up to today?" he asked her conversationally while she unpacked the basket of sandwiches and passed them around with paper plates and napkins.

"Origami. I'm afraid it just isn't working out though," she sighed at the thought, "I thought it would be a good transitional hobby from cooking."

John took a bite of his sandwich, watching as Penelope picked at hers absentmindedly. Then the flavor hit him and he struggled to swallow. The woman had used a ridiculous quantity of mustard on the bread and he shuddered as it overpowered all of the other ingredients, taking over his palate completely. He tried not to make a face of disgust and set the sandwich down without raising suspicion. Sherlock must have noticed however, because he didn't even touch the sandwiches at all. Although, since the day before he had formed a low sense of faith in Penelope's cooking skills.

"I'm sure your origami couldn't have been that bad. You're probably too hard on yourself," John tried to be reassuring.

She smiled at the kind words and they watched as she rummaged around in her purse to produce a sample of her work. She found a small paper creature and set it on the wooden table in front of the two men. John and Sherlock both examined it and gave each other confused side glances.

"Uh, it's a cow?" John tried. Sherlock shook his head.

"A cow? No, clearly in a rhinoceros or something. It has a horn," Sherlock pointed out. Penelope frowned and picked up the folded paper, turning it around sadly in her hands.

"That's a beak. It was supposed to be a crane," she mumbled, dejectedly, "See what I mean? I can't do anything right."

John shook his head at the statement, "Of course that's not true, you probably do many things well. You own a bookstore after all. I'm sure you give wonderful book recommendations."

Penelope lit up at the mentioning of this, a light blush forming on her cheeks. John gave her one of his special half smiles and took another bite of his sandwich, forgetting how awful it was until after it was too late. Sherlock smirked at his fake attempt to hide his disgust.

"Yes. I suppose I am good at that. I play this sort of game...I guess which books would fit people based on what I can tell about them," she admitted excitedly.

Sherlock hummed in thought, his interest uncharacteristically peaked. In some ways, Penelope had a lot in common with Sherlock, although their personalities strongly contrasted. Both of them were intuitive, observant, and knowledgeable. John noticed the similarity between them, as an outsider, but the deductive Sherlock Holmes himself saw them only as opposites on the spectrum.

"Tell me about this game," he requested. He put his elbows on the table and rested his steepled hands against his lips and chin as he often does when he's thinking.

"Well, I don't know how to describe it really," she laughed.

"What if I show you instead?" She suggested. Sherlock gave her a single nod. She looked around the park, turning around on the seat to examine the passers by. Her eyes found an old man feeding a huddled group of pigeons, his cane leaned up against the bench as if it were his companion. She gestured to him and Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he observed the man.

"Some would say that he would like a book on bird watching but that's not true. He's content enough with his pigeons. The old man can't go very far from home with his cane. He would want to read foreign stories, not adventure stories, but travel guides, nonfiction, or fiction written from foreign writers. He would want to get an actual feel for the places that he's never been from people who have lived there and experienced it first hand. Adventure stories would make him sad. They're too fantastic and they would make him feel old, like he's missed something that's only for the youthful."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Penelope and hummed again.

_The old man has heart disease and signs of stroke. There's a medical bracelet around his wrist. He couldn't have left the country, so he is trying to find fulfillment in small hobbies like bird feeding, that don't require exertion. She's probably quite correct in her conclusions. Interesting. She's more perceptive than I assumed.._

He was silent for awhile, expression unreadable. She waited for his approval, fidgeting under his gaze, looking down self consciously at her hands in her lap. He finally sat back again, moving his steepled hands from the table and sitting up straight.

"Not bad," he concluded, both of her deduction and Penelope herself. John looked between them proudly, and then back to his sandwich, now scrapped clean of excess mustard with a plastic knife.

"That's one of the biggest compliments he'll ever give Penelope. That's something you must be pretty good at," he told her. She glowed with happiness at the information, satisfied with winning the cold hearted consulting detective over.

"I knew I'd win him over eventually," she grinned and began eating her own sandwich. Sherlock smirked at her, starting to find her an acceptable acquaintance but not admitting it of course. Soon after that, Grady appeared into view, crossing the street to reach the park and nearly getting hit by a car in the process. He seemed out of breath from only the short distance of walking.

"I'm back," he heaved as he caught his breath and sat down next to Penelope.

"Ah, so there's our Sergeant! I almost thought you weren't coming. I'm Penelope," she greeted, reaching for a handshake. Grady took her hand and grinned at her widely, revealing his dimples as usual.

"It's very nice to meet you Penelope! John's told me about you. Thank you for the sandwiches. How thoughtful."

She kindly served him up the rest of the sandwiches and as he ate, he and Penelope hit it off. Apparently Penelope found fishing fascinating, a fact which began a whole new round of Grady's never ending fishing stories. That alone put Sherlock in a sour mood again, but he also had to watch the Sergeant eat with incredible slowness which infuriated him to new levels. The consulting detective was eager for him to finish and reveal what he had learned from his visit to the police station. He was just finishing off his last few bites when Sherlock could no longer stand it.

"Well Grady?" He snapped rudely, cutting him off mid sentence. John told him to calm down but Sherlock was past that point. He had lost all sense of patience.

"What?" he asked a little dumbly.

"The papers! The papers Grady!," he shouted. A look of understanding hit Grady's features and he quickly fished around in his pocket to look for them. He set two folded papers and a small leaflet map on the table.

"I got your address Sherlock, for Leo Christanza, and the directions to Cresmere lake."

Sherlock snatched the map first and examined it. Then his forehead wrinkled at the information.

"The nearest carpark with trail access to the lake is really that far away from it?" He asked disbelievingly. Grady blinked at him dumbly like he didn't understand.

"Yes," he said plainly and blinked again.

This puzzled Sherlock greatly and he became even more stressed at the realization.

"That can't be _true_," he growled.

"The bodies couldn't have been carried that far in that kind of terrain. Especially in late September when it would have been muddy," he explained to them, "They didn't have mud on them when I examined them in the art gallery. The murderer must have been able to transport them with ease."

Penelope looked around the men as if it were obvious.

"Have you been to the lake Grady?" She asked curiously.

He shook his head and nervously reddened from all of Sherlock aggression, "No. I- I don't enjoy pike."

"Well there's a clearing off the forest road where locales sometimes park during the busy season when the carpark is full," she turned to Sherlock.

"It's a bit remote but I could probably draw it on the map for you," she offered.

Sherlock was hesitant at first, battling between his ego and his desire to solve the case, but eventually conceded and handed it to her. John gave him a look of surprise. It was a significant sign of trust on Sherlock's part. He hated it when anyone tried to contribute to a case. He would rather struggle along stubbornly than receive anything that could be considered as help.

After finding a pen in her bag, she began writing on the map. Sherlock watched with observant eyes as she circled an area of the forest land and then drew lines connecting it to the main forest road. She handed it back to him with a smile and he examined it.

"That seems...much more probable," he stated awkwardly. John smiled at Sherlock's unusual moment of swallowing his ego.

"He means thank you," the doctor explained to Penelope.

"You're welcome Sherlock," she told him with a smile. Sherlock grunted absentmindedly in response as he committed both the map and the artist's address to memory.

"Tomorrow we'll have to investigate the lake, John," he told the blonde, "I think it would be best to do it before talking to Leo."

John nodded in approval of the plan.

"Sounds good."

Sherlock noticed Penelope's eyes light up and her mouth open in question. He looked at her straight faced.

"No," he said with finality. She sighed wistfully and rested her chin in her hand.


	17. Chapter 16: Rebecca Larson

Entry Two: Rebecca Larson

Rebecca was a slob, and I say that as Sherlock Holmes' flatmate. I know the definition better than anyone else. Although, unlike the beakers filled with suspicious liquids that I was use to seeing, her mess was at least nontoxic. I hoped.

I squinted around the small flat littered with wrinkled clothing, garbage, old cigarettes, liquor bottles, crumpled papers, and dirty dishes which have been sitting out for over six months. The smell from the mess was so strong that we could sense it before the landlady had even unlocked the door. Compared to a decomposed body, that was nothing. Still, it was nearly an involuntary action when our hands flew to our noses.

"Right," Sherlock uttered strenuously from the barrier of his hand, "Well, let's make this quick."

I watched curiously as Sherlock very calmly retrieved a folded handkerchief from the pocket of his tailored jacket and carefully unfolded it, holding it over his face. I gave him a peculiar look.

"A handkerchief? Are you really that posh?" I teased. He looked at me like it was the most practical accessory in existence.

"You never know when you'll need to chloroform someone," he said in his 'obviously' tone, while he stepped confidently into the flat.

"Hm," I hummed thoughtfully in consideration, "I still prefer the old fashioned way."

"That's your department _Captain _Watson," he teased, glancing back at me with a sly smile that made me laugh.

I followed close behind his tall frame, with Grady's stocky one just behind me. Rebecca's landlady remained in the doorway, peering in disinterestedly with eyes half concealed by droopy eyelids. She looked like her face was permanently frozen in the expression one has just after waking, and her emotions always seemed to be fixed in the same state of wandering apathy.

Rebecca's flat was split into two main rooms with doors leading to the single bathroom and bedroom on the right wall. The entry door led straight into the living room, and on the left, divided by a wall was the narrow kitchen. Sherlock's first instinct was to stride into the center of the living room, dodging empty liquor bottles, and other rubbish piled up in disorganized heaps. Against the dividing wall between the living room and the kitchen was a television and a coffee table with rotten plates of food, and in front of those was a couch towards the center of the room. It was blue and dilapidated with sunken cushions, clearly very worn. Next to the piece of furniture was a small end table with an older style landline phone.

Sherlock instantly gravitated to the area just behind the old couch, rotating on a swivel to take it all in. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, removing the handkerchief and returning it to his pocket.

"You're insane," I told him with a scoff, stopping just by the coffee table.

"It's better to get accustom to it John. Besides, there's richness in the smell. There could be so many overlooked clues."

I shook my head and looked at him oddly, but I removed my hand. I made my way over to a desk that was wedged in the far right corner, across from a bookshelf on the left wall. The desk was so cluttered, that the whole surface of it was concealed under journals, pages with scribbles, stacks of books, and a beautifully kept retro typewriter. Grady walked further into the room, awkwardly standing behind me and glancing around the flat. He obviously had no idea what to do. It was so different from the ease he felt when speaking with Annie's mother earlier. His medium for investigation was questioning, not observations and theories.

"We already took pictures," he told Sherlock and I. He looked between us but I was the only one who was listening.

"Good. Uh, did you check for signs of a break in or anything taken?" I asked more out of politeness rather than needing to know.

"Yeah it all checked out."

I nodded. The killer was very consistent and neither of those scenarios were part of his M.O for Annie McCray. According to the report, there was no sign that anyone had entered using force, and the case was the same for Rebecca's flat. It doesn't take Sherlock to come up with theories based on this. Either the killer was someone the victim knew and welcomed in, or she wasn't killed in her home. The objective here was simply to learn as much about Rebecca Larson as possible. She had no family members to interview since she was an orphan, so the only information that we have on her is the little that was offered by Mrs. Wilson the landlady.

Suddenly Sherlock opened his eyes and pointed to Mrs. Wilson standing in the doorway, trying to catch her off guard. I had seen him use this tactic many times. He believes abrupt stress brings out honesty in people and reveals their concealed emotions. I agree mostly, as long as he doesn't use it on people who are already traumatized. However, this woman is so apathetic, that I don't know what he thinks he will accomplish with that strategy.

"Did you come in here at any point?" he demanded. The woman blinked her droopy eyelids and shook her head, apparently not caught off guard at all.

"I only opened the door a few months ago, and that's when I found her missing. The flat was too quiet. It was suspicious. And the phone kept ringing but nobody would answer," she drawled.

I looked at her with confusion because that statement seemed contradictory.

"You thought something was wrong because it was too quiet?" I asked her. I gave a look to Sherlock and he seemed just as confused. That's always a good expression to see on him. It makes me feel like I'm not being as 'unobservant' as he tries to make me believe.

"Well," the landlady began, "She was a little batty. People were calling me everyday about her making too much noise. She was always shouting and throwing things around. I nearly called the police once."

"Odd. Did she live with anyone?" Sherlock asked, "Did she have visitors?"

The landlady shrugged.

Sherlock waited but she didn't elaborate any more except to say, "My tenants' lives are none of my business."

He groaned with aggravation and searched around for something, stopping at the space just behind me where Grady stood.

"You, Garson," He gestured to him, sending him into an even more nervous state.

"Grady," I corrected.

"Whatever," he mumbled, waving away the mistake.

The Sergeant was far out of his bounds in this setting, and he looked it. Sherlock could sense his self consciousness and decided to target the weakness.

"Garson, you're not doing anything productive. Go check the bedroom and bath," he ordered.

Grady looked at me apprehensively, silently asking the questions he was afraid to ask out loud in fear of the arrogant git's response. I gave him a sympathetic but casual smile to reassure him. It's not like Sherlock never orders me about without explaining. I swear he thinks people can read his damn mind sometimes. As Grady walked passed me, I gave him some advice.

"Look for how many toothbrushes there are," I whispered, "Any medications, clothing from another person, weapons in the underwear drawer, etc."

Grady grinned at me gratefully and walked with a resolute stride to fulfil his duties, like a soldier going into battle.

Meanwhile, Sherlock began his investigation in a spiral pattern around the room, taking in all perspectives slowly. He examined the path his feet took as he stepped, careful not to corrupt any possible evidence. He walked around the perimeter first, making his way back to the center of the room. When he passed the bookshelf, he stopped to examine the pictures. There was only one photo, which included Rebecca Larson as one of the subjects. She was a thin woman, with an almost pixie like oval face. She had large dark eyes, thin lips, and short wavy cropped black hair. Although the photo was maybe ten years old, she had signs of premature wrinkles even then, most likely due to her smoking and drinking vices. The woman beside her in the photo looked somehow similar.

"Related?" I asked.

"Sisters, possibly cousins but not as likely," responded Sherlock.

Then he focused on the contents of the desk, beginning with the papers. Most of them were unreadable scribbled notes, torn from the journals that were filled with similar pages of cryptic writing. He flipped through the journals, decoding the terrible handwriting as much as possible.

"She was often drunk when writing, obviously," he noted of the scribbles.

"What do they say?" I asked, peering over his shoulder. He shrugged and tossed them on the floor with disinterest.

"Something dull and irrelevant. Moving on," he muttered. He turned to the old typewriter, examining it from all angles, noting things to himself in the process.

"Doesn't seem like her style, and it's in nearly perfect condition. Used often. Cleaned often..."

Meanwhile, I picked up one of the books and flipped it over to reveal the front. It was one of those paperback mystery romance novels, but oddly enough, the picture of the man and woman on the front appeared familiar to me.

"I've read this," I told him, holding up the book. He narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his nose at the information. Before he could continue his judgment of me, I explained.

"You know the girl I went out with a few times during the kidnapping case in August?"

"No," he replied shortly. I was not surprised at all. To be honest, I was lucky to remember her name.

"Well her name was Sophie. She was in a book club. This was one of the books her group read and we ended up reading it together. It was actually really good."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "This is the cheapest literature available second to tabloids."

"But Sherlock look, Rebecca Larson is RL Whitney! She's a famous writer, a recluse," I emphasized, feeling like I had made my biggest discovery on a case in months. Sherlock didn't look at all impressed by it however. He probably had known who she was for a while now.

"Well John, she's dead," he said with just as much emphasis, "and we have more pressing matters at hand. What does the publishing date in the book say?"

I flipped to one of the first pages and scanned the text.

"2009," I read, "It was her most recent book."

He scoffed, "That was seven years ago. Do you know the turn out for those romance novels? Clearly she was struggling to publish something new. Hm, struggling writer, smoker, alcoholic. I'm starting to get the picture here. Low self esteem, became a near hoarder. Hand me the book."

I did as he said, not really knowing what he was expecting to do with it. He flipped to the publishing page again and I watched as he gently tore it out. He folded it and stored it in his pocket for future reference.

Then he resumed the path around the room. I stayed where I was because I had no idea what I could contribute at that point. Sometimes it's best to just sit back and nod my head. He stopped between the coffee table and the television, his eyes trained on the floor where a dark spot had sunken into the carpet.

"Interesting," he mumbled, bending down to get a better look. He leaned close to the carpet and sniffed the spot to identify it.

"Alcohol?" I asked. He shook his head, reaching into his pocket for his magnifying glass.

His eyes glowed with calculating excitement, apparently finding a clue within the spot which was unseen to the naked eye. He returned the tool to his pocket and sat up, kneeling on one knee. He looked around with a concentrating expression, stretching his arm out as a vague measure of the radius around his body. I watched with avid curiosity as he stood up and examined the coffee table with closer distinction.

"Not you," he told the table. He caught sight of the end table with the phone and hummed in thought. He moved to the surface and felt it with his fingertips. He sniffed them, then picked up the phone and turned it over in his hands. He grinned with discovery.

He jumped onto his feet and stared directly at the wall next to the desk.

"There," he pointed. I gave him a peculiar look but examined the wall, hoping to figure out what was going on in his head.

I could see there was definitely a small dent in the wall, unnoticeable unless in close proximity.

Sherlock's finger gravitated down to the carpet on the floor just below that dent.

"What?" I demanded, tired of being in the dark. He looked at me with urgency and continued pointing.

"Look!" he shouted in response. I rolled my eyes but did as he said. I squinted at the carpet and noticed a dark black spot similar to the one by the coffee table but wider and more concentrated. There were flakes of some dark material in it, perhaps tea leaves, and a glimmer of something in the light. It was...glass shards.

"Glass, leaves, and a black spot. Alright, Sherlock please explain," I turned to him curiously and he grinned.

"See this ring on the end table?" he asked. I walked over to where he was and he showed me the mark next to where the phone was sitting.

"Condensation from a drink," I attempted to guess. He shook his head.

"Too large for that. It was a vase. She had a vase of flowers here, which she never threw away, but never changed the water because she was either lazy or forgetful, most likely both. That's why the water was rotten," he explained, then grabbed my arm and turned me around to face the spot on the ground.

"You see John, she was sitting here," He said, demonstrating the scenario by sitting down on the couch, close to the end table.

"Someone called and she picked it up. She was so distraught by whatever the conversation was that she dropped the phone and it hit the table. See the impact impressions on both?" he asked. He handed the phone to me and I saw the chips and scraps on one side which seemed to match the marks on the wood of the end table.

"She stood up," Sherlock simulated by doing so, "Then she turned towards the end table, grabbed the vase, spilling some of the water on the ground behind her in the process, and threw it forward, hitting the wall."

"She cleaned the wall I'm assuming," I noted. He nodded.

"She cleaned the wall, threw away the vase, but never cleaned up the glass remnants or the spots on the ground. She probably wanted the evidence from the moment erased, because of the upsetting memory of the phone call, but didn't have the strength to do it. She cleaned it quickly, just enough to not be reminded of it."

"Why does this mean anything Sherlock?" I sighed, still not understanding why this was significant except for Sherlock's opportunity to show off.

He thought about the question for a second, "Well, I have two theories. And both of them are on this paper."

He held up the page from the book but I still wasn't getting it. Grady entered before my confused look could be followed with further questions.

"One toothbrush," he announced proudly, presenting the evidence with dignified grace.

…

I discovered that Sherlock's first theory involved some kind of nasty dispute between Rebecca and her editor which resulted in her little incident with the vase. Surprisingly the small publishing company was located not far from Cresmere in a larger town where many of the locales worked or went to school at the university.

They meet by appointment only but because it was an urgent police investigation they made an exception.

The editor was a professional looking woman, but honest and polite. She wore an androgynous suit and tie and had her long brown hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. She sat leaned back in her chair, and when we entered her office her face broke into a polite smile.

"Hey, I'm Joan, How can I help you?" She greeted us, shaking each of our hands firmly, except for Sherlock who looked away awkwardly from the gesture. She quirked her eyebrow at the rejection but said nothing. Grady and I both sat down in the chair across from the desk but Sherlock resolved to stand.

"You used to have an author selling to your company, Rebecca Larson, with the pen name R.L Whitney," he stated.

Joan laughed, "I'm sorry but we have thousands of authors working for us. I honestly can't remember her by name."

Sherlock tossed the book on the desk with a thump. She looked at the novel with surprise but nevertheless began to read the back to get a sense of the story.

"Right… a romance with a bit of crime. Dreadfully cheesy but the public eats it up. I vaguely remember. When was it written? The publishing page is missing," she showed the spot where Sherlock had ripped it out.

"2009," I told her.

Grady rooted around his pocket for something and retrieved on of the missing persons posters with Rebecca's photo on it. He handed it to Joan.

"This might help to remember," he told her. She nodded slowly, furrowing her brow as she studied the picture.

"Yes. I remember her. What's this about? She's missing?" She asked Sherlock, somehow sensing that he was the dominant one in the investigation despite Grady being a sergeant.

"Dead actually, but we know that six months ago she communicated with you previous to her murder, and that you got in a rather intense dispute" he said quickly, and narrowed his eyes in examination of her body language and tone of voice. It was a variation on the Reid technique. He stated accusations as truth rather than a question and if it were true, some suspects would respond with agreement. "_Yes, but…" _while if they denied it or if it were untrue, they would offer an explanation. Either way it allowed him to determine her level of honesty.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she scoffed, looking at him as if he were crazy, "I remember a meeting we had about a new manuscript she had written, but she never returned my calls. I'm a busy woman and I don't waste my time so I didn't bother trying to get a hold of her anymore. She didn't show any effort of contacting me so I assumed she changed her mind. Oh my god, she was murdered? That's awful."

She seemed legitimately stricken by the news. Her face grew paler at the grim thought, although clearly she was not close to the woman.

Sherlock seemed satisfied by her reaction and response and finally sat down. He straightened his jacket and crossed his legs.

"I was simply checking. I believe you," he admitted, "Do you know anything about the woman. Did she ever talk about her personal life?"

"No," she shook her head, "Rebecca didn't seem like the type to open up. She was pretty antisocial, a bit of a jerk even".

He hummed and nodded in agreement.

"I see. Well, I think we may have...we need to redirect," he sent me a look. In other words, we needed to move to theory number two.

On the way back to the car Sherlock took the book page from his pocket along with his phone. He silently typed and scrolled using quick expert fingers. I was always amazed by how fast he could search for information. I walked beside him, looking over to see his concentrating expression. His facial features changed to curiosity and then satisfaction.

"What is it Sherlock? What was the other theory?" I finally asked him with a smile.

He passed the paper to me. I read it with concentration, trying to figure out what it indicated.

_Dedicated to Maria Larson_

He explained, his voice low, eager, and rushed.

"The typewriter back at the flat was given as a gift to Rebecca. Someone close had to have given it to her, because she wouldn't have chosen to use a such difficult method of writing when it would be much more convenient to use modern technology. After all, Rebecca was lazy. Then there was it's impeccable condition. Nothing in that flat was in even a semi decent condition. It must have had emotional significance. She didn't have any frequent male visitor because she would have had signs of a second person in her flat. It had to be a friend or relative. She was a recluse and given Joan's description of her, it was not likely a friend. She was an orphan so that limited the list of family members. There was only one picture in her flat which happened to feature her and a female relative. I concluded that it was most likely her, and if it was, she would have her in her book dedication."

He then passed his phone to me, I looked at him curiously before taking it from him. The screen was on a facebook page for Maria Larson, sister to Rebecca. The most recent posts were sympathy posts, memories of Maria, and hopes that someday there will be a cure.

"Her sister had cancer," I mumbled.

"She died six months ago. The phone call Rebecca received was a call from the hospital with the news of her death. Those flowers might even have been for her room," he theorized, "She was the only one close to her, the only one she let in. Of course she would have taken her death very hard."

"Brilliant," I told him with a smile as we entered the car, "Sad, but brilliant."

"So we are back to having no leads. Rebecca didn't have any enemies, and I don't see the connect to Annie" Sherlock said frustratedly.


	18. Chapter 17: Amala Bassi

Sorry for the long wait! School is killing me and this story is getting hard to write because there's a lot of information that I need to tie together and I haven't planned it out in detail yet. Let me know what you think.

Estella Jean

* * *

Entry 3: Amala Bassi

We waited on the porch of Amala's home as Grady pressed the white button again. The doorbell chimed for the second time, and for the second time it was left unanswered. Inside foreign voices could be heard, and the faint sound of tearful and insistent arguing. It had been that way for the full five minutes we had been standing there. I shared a puzzled look with the sergeant, but we beared to wait a moment more, even though it was beginning to get embarrassing honestly. The family had been notified earlier that we would be stopping by. I heard Sherlock huff behind me, growing ever impatient, and the next thing I know he's knocking on the door a bit harsher than would be polite. I looked at him with bewilderment but he seemed confused as if pounding louder was the only logical thing to do. I was just about to chastise him and suggest we return at another time when to our surprise the door opened. Standing there was a young Indian child of maybe seven or eight.

His face was downcast as he peered at us curiously, with wondering sad eyes. I smiled instantly and unreservedly at the boy, as one often does when spontaneously encountering a child.

"Hello there," I greeted warmly, "Are you parents home?"

Of course I knew they were. We could hear them through the door, but it seemed only courteous to ask. Instead of being welcomed in, the boy gave me a blank stare, most likely not understanding English. He noticed Grady's uniform and a look of recognition came to his features.

He yelled something I couldn't distinguish and ran back into the home, leaving the door open.

We awkwardly waited, listening as the voices arguing suddenly stopped. There was some shuffling, and then a middle aged man wearing a turban entered the doorway. At first he only glanced silently at Grady, before moving to Sherlock and I in turn. He didn't seem pleased to see us, his lips forming a straight frown line. His features told a tale of anguish. He looked emotionally distressed, heartbroken.

Nobody said anything at first and a beat of uncomfortable silence passed. I was the one to finally break it, reaching out my hand to the man.

"Hello. I'm Dr. John Watson. You must be Mr. Bassi," I greeted. The man shook my hand and nodded solemnly.

"Yes," he mumbled. He looked to Sherlock but he only nodded in a silent greeting.

"That's Sherlock Holmes," I told him on Sherlock's behalf. Mr. Bassi didn't seem to mind his antisocial behavior and quickly wrote it off. He shook Grady's hand, to which Grady replied it was nice to see him again.

"I'm so sorry for the wait," he told us in a low pain filled voice, "My wife...she's upset right now that I agreed to us meeting today. But please, come in."

I wasn't surprised by that response at all, some of the victims' families from past cases refused to talk to us. Some said they couldn't handle it when dealing with the grief. Others didn't trust us which I couldn't blame them for considering Sherlock's tactics. Some were in denial that their loved one was even dead. I vaguely wondered which was the case for Mrs. Bassi.

The man gestured for us to enter and Sherlock and I tentatively followed Grady into the warm glow of the orange walled foyer. I was immediately enticed by the smell of spicy incense which seemed to drift from somewhere in the living room where Mr. Bassi guided us. As we entered the colorful room of ornately carved dark wood furniture, patterned rugs, gold decor, cultural paintings, and bright swatches of fabric, I noticed motion to the right where the staircase began.

I turned to see a woman dressed in a pink and red salwar kameez, ushering a gaggle of children up the stairs, her tears barely visible in the warm lighting. I frowned sadly at the family, feeling my heart go out to them. The children ranging in heights and ages, bowed their heads in grief. One girl in her early teenage years quietly sobbed as she held the hand of the young boy who opened the door for us. He looked up to see me just before he disappeared to the first floor, with the same sad but curious eyes.

That poor boy. He was so young, too young to know what death is. He shouldn't have to learn like this. Most children his age only understand death in terms of cartoon characters, and those revive and regenerate nearly instantaneously. He shouldn't have to ask where his sister is and why she will never return, and spend the rest of his childhood filling in his vague understanding of what happened. No child should have to learn those hard facts of life in such a personal and cruel way. I felt so bitter about the thought that my jaw clenched reflexively. Sherlock noticed. He quirked his eyebrow at me in question and glanced to the stairs and back to me with his blue eyes. Of course he read my mind as usual.

"We'll catch him soon enough, John," he whispered to me with an almost smile.

"For their sakes I hope so," I responded in a low tone.

Amala's father welcomed us to sit down and gestured to the low couches around the room. I chose to sit at the red cushioned love seat where Sherlock soon joined me. Grady sat at the adjacent armchair, which was across from at the other.

"She is taking the death very hard," the father explained, looking to the stairs and rubbing his hand over his face, "Ishanvi doesn't want to talk to law enforcement yet. She thinks it's bad for the children's coping as well as her own. Ever since the news...well..."

He took a deep breath and continued.

"It's been hard on all of us," he trembled, trying not to cry but the waver in his voice suggested he might lose that battle. "But that's why I disagree with my wife. I think we need closure...I want to know who did this to our Amala."

"I'm so sorry," I told him honestly, unable to imagine the pain he must be going through, "We are here to help, in any way we can."

Grady nodded in agreement, the same look of solemn compassion on his face. Not surprisingly, Sherlock avoided the emotional interaction, darting his calculating eyes around the room silently, doing his usual once over observations. It was clear that he was uncomfortable with the sentiment by the way he sat, his back firmly to the chair and his long legs crossed. While composed himself, Sherlock was as stiff and rigid as a statue .

Oh... I apologize for that rather poor choice of words. I didn't intend for that comparison to be as gruesome as the images it may conjure to mind in relation to this case. Even when writing this, I cringe at the thought of those dead women in that terrible state. I can remember Amala. She no longer looked like the picture of the beautiful smiling young woman on the wall of the living room across from me. I shuddered and returned my focus to the conversation quickly.

"You're from Punjab correct?" Sherlock asked, watching attentively although he already knew what his answer would be.

"Yes," Mr. Bassi replied, wiping his eyes, "How did you know?"

"Your son spoke Punjabi at the door," Sherlock replied.

"When did you move here?" I asked conversationally, removing my notebook from the bag I brought with me, posed to record the answer on a fresh page for the new victim.

"About four years ago," Mr. Bassi responded. I began writing this information. Meanwhile, Sherlock nodded to Grady expectantly and the man began his questioning process.

"Alright , we have a series of general questions for you about Amala," began the sergeant, "I know we already went over these at the time of her disappearance but it's just typical procedure."

Amala's father nodded, "I understand."

Grady flipped through his pages of questions and started the interview and I documented the conversation as it unfolded.

"When did you last see Amala?" Grady asked the grieving man.

He let out a shaky sigh before replying.

"She left for college in the morning. She usually gets back around 1:30. But...she didn't," He looked up at Grady with grief and quickly turned away in embarrassment, wiping his eyes.

"What was Amala majoring in?" Grady asked Mr. Bassi.

"Pharmaceuticals," he revealed, "She was very intelligent. She was even accepted into a paid internship for a high end company in London...she was really going places."

I bit my lip as I wrote that statement down. The more I learned about the case the more darkly my thoughts seemed to shift. If there was ever a killer I wanted to bring to justice, it was this one. It was so random, so unwarranted, these senseless killings.

Sherlock's eyes suddenly lit up. He sat up straighter as if he just came upon a theory.

"What university did she attend?" He questioned quickly.

"Amberton University. It's not far from here. Maybe fifteen minutes West in Maberly," Mr. Bassi answered. Sherlock seemed to buzz with energy as he heard the information. That was the town, Maberly, where Rebecca Larson's publishing company was located. At last a connection! Grady caught on to the connection. His eyes widened as he realized that we may be onto something.

"Did Amala ever describe a conflict with anyone? Perhaps one of her friends or classmates at college?" He asked in a rush.

Mr. Bassi shook his head slowly as he thought.

"Hm...no she didn't mention them to me at least. She had a study group but never talked much about it. As far as I know, she wasn't close to any of them. Amala didn't have many school friends. She focused on her work," he replied.

"What about when she wasn't in class, what did she do in Maberly when she wasn't at school? Did she have a job or somewhere she spent time?" Grady questioned, unable to hide his eagerness. Amala's father picked up on it and looked between Sherlock and Grady curiously.

"No job, she didn't have time. She went to this coffee shop to do her homework sometimes. It was called… I can't really remember. It was close to the school though."

I put down the question in my journal: _coffee shops in the area? _

"Did she ever mention a publishing company? Perhaps a woman named Joan or Rebecca?" Grady asked. Sherlock sent him a stern look to warn him he had said too much. Grady immediately whitened and nervously rubbed his forehead.

Mr. Bassi looked at him with alarm, sitting up further in his seat and glancing between us with glowing tear stained eyes.

"What do you mean? Who are they? Do you know something about my daughter that you're not telling us?"

Sherlock sighed frustratedly at Grady and rolled his eyes at the mistake he had made. Grady gave him an apologetic frown.

"Mr. Bassi," I said, "We can't divulge any information yet. No, we don't know anything so far, but as soon as we do and we are able to tell you and your family then we will. In the meantime we need your focus."

I gave him a comforting smile and finally the man's tenseness released and he leaned back into the chair.

"Yes," he said simply in agreement, looking at the floor with exhaustion.

"So tell us more about her school. What were her professors like?" I coaxed to get off the previous subject.

Mr. Bassi continued to stare at the floor but pondered the question as he formed an answer.

"There was...I think a professor named Stewart. He was her favorite. She had him last year. The only other one I remember was a chemistry teacher she had around the time she disappeared. She was upset because he was a ridiculously unreasonable man. He gave her a C on an experiment that took her two weeks to conduct. I think his name was Sebastian."

I wrote both of the names down with asterisks next to them to remind myself to research them later. I looked up to see Sherlock give me a rather proud smirk. It was odd, because almost always the information that I collect leads to dead ends. It was always the facts that he catches that lead us anywhere.

"Describe her more to us Mr. Bassi. What was she like?" Grady asked with an inviting smile.

Mr. Bassi was silent at first as he remembered his daughter. He teared up as the memories hit him.

"She," he cleared his throat, "She was imaginative as a little girl. She believed she could be anything, do anything. I think that's what made her so successful when she was older. She was so confident. Family meant a lot to her. She was very close to her brothers and sisters, especially, Arjun, the little one at the door. She had a magic way of making him happy with her stories and her singing even when he was in the worst moods. She was sometimes homesick for Punjab, but only sometimes. She always wanted to travel, to never stay in one place for too long."

"I see," I smiled at him reassuringly because he was quietly crying at this point. My heart twisted in pain for him but I didn't let it show. We waited till he finished. He wiped his eyes and spoke again.

"She had a fiance," Mr. Bassi revealed.

Sherlock's cheek twitched as he heard the information.

"They went out on the weekends sometimes. He was a good man."

"Really?" Grady asked, "Tell me about their relationship."

Mr. Bassi thought about this for a moment, "He was from a good family, quite wealthy. He actually is our neighbor down the street. They met when we moved here and began dating soon after. Their proposal was announced about a year ago."

I asked for the man's name and information because he would probably be our next stop. As I was writing, I felt the cushion of the loveseat shift and suddenly Sherlock was right beside me. I shivered as I felt his breath on my neck.

"Keep talking. I'm going to do my own little investigation," he whispered in my ear which made me swallow hard. I nodded subtly in agreement so Mr. Bassi wouldn't see.

Then Sherlock's warmth and proximity was suddenly removed from me as he got up from the loveseat and began walking around the living room space casually. Taking things in slowly and in sharp detail. I cleared my throat and returned to the conversation.

"Did they ever fight? Amala and…?" I trailed off.

"Aarush, no. Amala was a very spirited girl and she wasn't always easy to get along with, but he doted on her. He would do anything for her. They never argued."

"Hm," I hummed in thought and nodded. I resolved that a trip to the fiance himself would confirm that statement. I heard a sound towards my right and turned to see what Sherlock was up to. He was noting the details of a painting on the wall. He also seemed to have found the source of the incense, because below this painting was a small table situated in the corner of the room where smoke gently drifted. It was beautifully decorated with a golden statue and a small book. Sherlock didn't touch the altar, but examined it lightly. It was a level of respect and privacy that even he observed.

"This next question is a rather personal one Mr. Bassi," Grady began, I returned my attention to him, "How was you and your wife's relationship with Amala?"

Mr. Bassi seemed slightly surprised by the question but answered nevertheless.

"It was good, positive, healthy. We did see differently in some aspects just as Ishanvi and I do some times. Ishanvi is a Hindu and I'm a Sikh. We've brought up the children with a combination of values and traditions from each of our faiths. Amala was never interested in either of them, and sometimes fought against us in some hurtful ways. We had a few arguments over the subject, but they were nothing terrible. We resolved it as a family and moved on," he explained.

I heard another noise in Sherlock's direction and turned to him. His eyes were in that half crazed glow as he paused what he was examining and stared at what Mr. Bassi had said.

He cleared his throat to get his attention and it did so effectively.

"I don't suppose I could use your bathroom?" Sherlock asked the man. Something told me that's not what he truly wanted. He was going to use it as an excuse to take a detour somewhere else. I knew Sherlock Holmes very well.

Mr. Bassi nodded unsuspectingly and politely pointed to an area down a hallway near the stairs.

"Of course, it's down that hallway on the right," he directed.

Sherlock silently disappeared into that general direction. I kept my eyes on him to see if I could figure out where he was really going. He glanced back at me before quietly walking up the stairs. Really? Oh Sherlock. I held my breath, hoping he wouldn't be caught rudely wandering around the home, especially with Mrs. Bassi and the kids needing space. I turned to Mr. Bassi and rushed to ask a question.

"Uh, I was just wondering Mr. Bassi, did Amala act differently around the time of her disappearance?"

"Besides spending more time focusing on schoolwork, no. She was very dedicated to starting the year off right which was hard when she was already struggling in chemistry. She often stayed at the campus to do work in the lab and get extra help since the kids can be a distraction sometimes."

I nodded and let out a sigh of relief because I had yet to hear a disturbance caused by Sherlock upstairs.

"Could we get a copy of the schedule she had, the classes she took, her teachers?" I requested.

Mr. Bassi nodded and moved to get up.

"I believe her schedule is somewhere in her planner upstairs," he mumbled, moving towards the stairs. I felt my heart leap with panic.

"Wait! Let's finish the questions first. In fact, I don't think we actually need it. That was...silly of me," I fumbled to stop him from going. He paused, gave me an odd look, and then sat back down. He gave Grady a questioning expression as if I were slightly off. Grady looked to me with the same expression and I let out a desperate breath.

"Alright then," Mr. Bassi said.

I decided it would be best if I just didn't say anything anymore. My hand shook with anxiety while I recorded the rest of the conversation, trying to keep my mind off whatever stupid thing Sherlock was attempting. I hoped he wasn't about to cause trouble because the consequences could be pretty bad. It was out of my hands.

Three minutes went by.

Grady continued asking things but I had tuned out. I couldn't focus on writing because I was so on edge. What could he be doing?

"So she used to sing?" I distantly heard Grady say.

"Yes, but she's been so busy with classes…" came Mr. Bassi's muffled response.

I tapped my fingers on the armrest to distract myself. More minutes passed. I glanced at my watch frequently. Occasionally I heard footsteps upstairs which made me hold my breath. I was so nervous. Grady flipped to the last page of questions which, as far as I could see, were inconsequential to the case. Where was he even going with this?

Finally I couldn't take it. I removed my phone from my pocket and sent Sherlock a message.

_Where are you? Get down here. You are going to get caught._

_JW_

I held my phone in my hand waiting for the reply. As of now, he had been gone for 8 minutes.

"Ready to go?" Sherlock's voice boomed right behind me. It made me jump and I struggled to balance my heartrate. I sent him a frustrated look. He was leaned against the back of the loveseat smirking at me, hands on either side of me.

"You can't just do that Sherlock. We could get kicked out! And was that really necessary?" I whispered harshly.

"It was a little funny, John. It's amazing how high strung you are" He teased.

"High strung!" I exclaimed a little too loudly. Of course he has the guts to go way out of his bounds in a way that could get us kicked off the case and then call _me_ high strung. I exhaled sharply and shut my eyes tight to control my aggravation.

"Well Grady are you finished?" He asked the sergeant.

Grady looked at his papers and then back to Sherlock. Clearly he had more, but from the look Sherlock gave him it seemed they were finished. It wasn't like we were learning anything relevant from them anyways. Grady been going on some tangent which most likely would have led them to the topic of fishing eventually.

"No...I suppose we are done for now," Grady responded slowly, "Thank you for your time Mr. Bassi."

"Thank you," he said in return, standing up from the chair to shake Grady's hand.

"I just want to have this end," he told him, "the sooner it can, the sooner we can begin to heal."

"I absolutely agree," Grady nodded reassuringly. Mr. Bassi led us back to the front door where we said our goodbyes.

As soon as the door closed behind us Sherlock fished around his coat pockets urgently and removed a small stack of letters. He grinned at me with an unhealthy level of excitement.

"Look what I found in the girl's room!" he exclaimed and proceeded to explain.

I scoffed, ignoring whatever discovery he had made because obviously he was too self satisfied to see that he put us in jeopardy.

"Do you honestly not care Sherlock that you could have just got us kicked off this case? You have no right to go rooting around in theses people's houses against their permission! Suppose Mrs. Bassi saw you and became upset? Suppose she called Lestrade to complain?" I huffed.

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together as he finally caught on. I brooded as we walked along the path to the car, stuffing my hands in my pockets which made Sherlock appear even more concerned. I could guess that it was something he observed as a sign of me being pissed. Good. Maybe I've finally made it obvious enough for him.

Grady glanced awkwardly back at us but stayed out of the conversation. He probably didn't even know what was going on. Sherlock was hushed into silence. I had my handle on the car door when he stopped me by touching my arm. I turned to face him and he looked genuinely apologetic. His blue eyes serious and no longer excited over his find.

"I'm sorry John, you were right. It was risky. I won't do it again," he admitted. I almost thought I hadn't heard correctly. Had he just apologized?

"Oh," I said with astonishment, "Well...good."

Sherlock grinned, taking it as an acceptance of his apology.

"Now I have to tell you about what I found," he urged, returning to his excitement. I rolled my eyes and smiled. I couldn't be upset with him. Sherlock never apologizes after all.

"Fine, tell me in the car," I told him and opened the door.


	19. Chapter 18: The New 221B

Thank you anonymous reviewers for inspiring me to get off my lazy butt and write. I needed that push. Here is the long awaited chapter 18.

Estella Jean

* * *

In the back seat of the sergeant's car, Sherlock began his enthralled explanation of the mysterious letters. His eyes trained on me, reflecting shapes in the blue and a slight orange shine from the sun setting on the horizon behind me. Apparently Amala kept in close contact with her best friend from Punjab and these letters were the complete record of their correspondence.

"Now we have a record of every thought and every movement that Amala made."

Well that was quite convenient. The first victim that we can have a real look into. That would have to lead somewhere. Perhaps it was worth the risk he took when sneaking about, although I'd never give him the acknowledgment.

"Well that was a bit of luck at last," Grady said from the driver's seat, quietly listening to our conversation.

"Brilliant," I told Sherlock with a smile. I turned over one of the letters in my hand and my brow furrowed when I realized I couldn't read it.

"Uh Sherlock, It's in Punjabi," I noted, giving him a confused look.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Well obviously," he replied.

I continued to stare at him oddly. Did he honestly know Punjabi? I know he can speak several different languages but only when the need arises. As long as I had known him, I hadn't seen him speak that language.

"The boy who greeted us at the door was kind enough to lead me to them and explain who they were being sent to," he went on to say.

I was surprised to hear that the small boy was so willingly helpful. Sherlock was only a stranger. Not to mention, he didn't show any sign of understanding us on the porch.

"I thought he couldn't speak english?"

Sherlock began examining the dates on the envelopes with a scrutinizing gaze. He hummed and responded absentmindedly.

"He knows much more than he lets on it seems…"

His blue eyes finished scanning and he looked up at me.

"Look," he said and handed me another envelope, "The date. It was the last one she wrote."

It was in early September. Around the time when the victims were determined to have died.

"It was just before she died," I mumbled.

"Precisely. I think we should translate these right away. It might give us some relevant information before we talk with the fiance. Grady take us to the bookstore," he ordered.

"On my way," Grady responded and started the car.

"Do you think Penelope has a book on the Punjabi language?" I asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"I assume so. I noticed a decent section on foreign language this morning."

"Brilliant," I said again. It seemed our aimlessness was finally acquiring a direction.

...

John finished writing in his journal, racing to complete his entry before the light left him. Sherlock watched curiously in the dim dark blue of the car as John's hand quickly drove across the page.

His forehead wrinkled slightly as a peculiar observation came to him.

He watched John's hand carefully, the motions that he made, and realized that he wrote differently than others. The corner of his mouth tugged up slightly as John formed his words from the bottom of the letter upward instead of from the top to the bottom like most.

Oddly mesmerizing, Sherlock thought as the letters filled the blank space.

John came to the end of his sentence and closed the book. When he looked up he noticed Sherlock's intense gaze. It made the doctor uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and Sherlock turned to the front of the car as if nothing had happened.

"What?" John finally asked to satiate his curiosity.

Sherlock responded without looking at his partner.

"The way you write," he said simply. John looked at him with confusion on his features but remained silent. He tentatively opened his journal but saw nothing unusual with the words on the page.

"Uh…" He mumbled, waiting for further explanation.

"You write backwards John. Not many people do."

John was puzzled by the revelation and quickly scribbled something into the book just in case of the odd chance Sherlock was making it up. He could barely read what he had written because of the lack of light, but he could see that his pencil swirled from down to up.

It made him laugh in surprise.

"That is odd isn't it? How did you even notice? I didn't even notice."

Sherlock smirked and gave a small shrug.

"I always notice, John," he had wanted to say.

By the time they reached Elementary Books, the sun had set leaving them in the crisp cover of night. Grady parked parallel to the curb, beside the golden rectangle of light that filtered through Penelope's shop and imprinted on the pavement. Cresmere was so quiet at night. As soon as the sun went down it shut up within itself, the streets barely populated with stragglers bathed in streetlights, heading to dinner at one of the many restaurants.

"Well," Grady sighed, rubbing his forehead, "Today was rather busy. Thank you for your help. I don't think I could have done that on my own."

"Clearly," Sherlock responded rudely. John gave him a disapproving look and tried to make up for it.

"We are happy to help. When are we meeting tomorrow?"

Grady hummed in thought, then slightly turned in his seat to ask if noon would be a good time.

"Perfect. That will give Sherlock enough time to translate a few of the letters," John agreed with a polite smile.

"See you then," the sergeant said.

The pair left the car and watched it begin to pull away into the dark. It was at that moment, standing on the pavement outside the shop, that John realized just how exhausted he was after the long day of investigating. They had spent half the time just traveling around and even so, they had little to show for it. Tomorrow would be the same way, more routine questions, hysterical loved ones, and unanswered mysteries.

He would give anything to just relax, for Mrs. Hudson to serve him a cup of tea with those delicious little biscuits she sometimes bakes, and his comfortable armchair to rest in. Sadly 221B was many hours away. As Sherlock opened the door to Elementary Books, and the bell chimed, he felt disheartened with homesickness.

At least it's warm in here, he thought positively as the warm air of the bookstore and old book smell rushed to greet them.

In a way it wasn't that much different from 221B, except that it was cleaner. The stench of Sherlock's experiments and abandoned plates of food were absent. The clutter which never seemed to improve despite the hours he spent chastising his partner did not exist here.

Perhaps it isn't too bad, he decided, gazing at the layers of bookshelf units, covered in interesting titles. One could wander for hours discovering new things to read. His thoughts were interrupted when Penelope appeared brightly into view, peeking her head from the curtain of the backroom.

"You're back!" she noted with a grin, "That's great. You could probably use a cup of tea. I just made some. And I have biscuits. Don't worry though, I bought them at the shops."

She gestured for the men to enter and disappeared again.

John struggled to respond to her surprising psychicness.

"How? How did she know that I was thinking that?" He asked Sherlock with astonishment.

Sherlock smirked, "You're easy to read John. I would know."

He smiled at the shorter man.

"I'm going to look for the translation book. Have fun," he told the doctor with an edge of sarcastic amusement.

John wasn't fooled. He knew Sherlock approved of Penelope, even if she was juvenile and overly chipper. He would be soon to join them.

Sherlock strided toward the book aisles and John entered the curtain behind the counter.

It didn't take the consulting detective long to find the book, but the loud giggling coming from the back room made him cringe. He resolved to do his translation in the armchair at the end of the aisle where he would be in silence.

Time passed. He was halfway through the last letter, attempting to piece together the odd conversation with only the words written by Amala's friend. He was intermittently interrupted by John and Penelope with the occasional laugh or exclamation.

It wasn't so much the noise that made him lose his concentration. It was the thoughts that weaseled their way into his mind, accompanying the noises.

Amala was struggling with her classes as far as can be deciphered from her friend's writing.

"Oh John," Penelope laughed lightheartedly.

Sherlock felt his eye twitch. He struggled to focus on the words on the page in front of him. He shifted in the seat.

That must be...where was I? So frustrating! They know I'm trying to focus. Here I was.

"Are you sure you are making…"

His thoughts wandered effortlessly from his task. His calculating eyes narrowing on the curtain to the back room. He tried to shake the feeling he noticed creeping up inside him. His eyes returned indignantly to the translation book.

I suppose a man would find Penelope attractive. Her face has nice symmetry.

He shook the thought away and returned to searching for the words in the translation book.

"No, not like that Penny," John's amused voice floated to his ears. Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh.

That stupid nickname. Penny. What made him come up with that? Nicknames are purposeless anyways. It makes her seem even more like a child.

He cleared his throat and found the words he was looking for.

'Decision'

'Best'

"Are you sure you are making the decision that is best?"

What decision? About her family, career, or fiance? My bet would be on the fiance…

His thoughts wandered back to John.

Would John find her attractive?, he couldn't help but wonder.

That would be ridiculous! He barely knows her and she is so young, barely legal. John's an old man compared to her. It would never work. Yes, most definitely fiance. There's the word right there.

"What about your fiancé?"

She was making a decision that would impact her relationship with him...but what was it?

"He seems perfect for you. He must sincerely love you, but will he want to make a commitment? Will you? If you marry him you can't go back to your family. They will be heartbroken"

That doesn't make sense. Of course he wants to make a commitment. He already proposed. Her father didn't show any sign of worry about the engagement, although that may be due to the fact that she is dead. Still, he only showed admiration for the man she was engaged to. Oh. It's so clear! Why didn't I see it before? There is another man. She is engaged to one but she loves another and was trying to decide which one to be with!

He flipped through the book and scanned the next sentence. However, that specific sentence confused him. He thought perhaps there was an error in the translation but after a double check he saw that it wasn't.

"I am certain that your new friend will be able to help. He sounds wise."

New friend? That is neither the fiancé or the other man. It is a third person in the equation.

"There now you have it Penny...sort of," John's voice broke through.

Sherlock sighed heavily. He furrowed his eyebrows severely in concentration. He growled when he realized he couldn't focus anymore, despite his attempts. He abruptly stood up, causing the translation book to fall to the floor with a thud and all of the letters to flutter to the floor in a haphazard array.

I must tell them to keep quiet. I'll never get this done in time with their outbursts.

Sherlock straightened his suit jacket and strode down the book aisle with his head held high and his eyes squinted critically. When he got to the backroom and John and Penelope's voices had become louder with the proximity, he grabbed the curtain to the doorway and shoved it open. Penelope and John looked up with surprise on their faces. They sat on opposite sides of a coffee table. John had a needle between his fingers with a thin thread inserted in the loop and a scrap of fabric.

"How's it coming Sherlock?" he asked, taking his sudden burst into the room as either a very good sign or a very bad one.

Sherlock looked with shock at the two, trying to figure out that they were up to. Whatever it was, it wasn't the scene he was suspecting.

"About half way. I may have a new lead. You're...sewing?" he asked.

Penelope grinned, "He's teaching me the suture patterns he uses on patients. He's trying to help me learn a new hobby of the week since cooking and origami are going pretty badly."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. He stood there for an awkward moment.

"Why don't you sit down Sherlock?" John laughed and nodded to the space on the couch beside him. Sherlock attempted to wipe the expression off his face and did as John suggested. He sat uncomfortably stiff.

"How is it now John?" Penelope asked, holding up the fabric.

"Uh," John said as he looked at the terribly stitched line. Not wanting to discourage her, he decided to be considerate about his response.

"It could use just a little work," he replied finally.

Sherlock took one look at the stitch and frowned critically.

"Crooked" he blurted out without reserve. John sighed internally at his partner but Penelope didn't seem to mind the comment.

She shrugged.

"At least he's honest. I'll work on it later. I know I'm going to get it soon," she said positively, smiling at the fabric in her hands. A look of realization came to her features and her eyes widened.

"Oh dear!" she turned to Sherlock, "I never offered you tea!"

"Black, two sugars," he said quickly.

She nodded and went straight to the little desk where the teapot sat and began pouring the drink.

"So what lead did you find?" John asked in a hushed tone, leaning towards Sherlock privately, as soon as the girl had left.

Sherlock leaned forward slightly as well and whispered his findings. He told his partner about the possibility of another man in a relationship with Amala and about the mysterious 'new friend'.

John listened intently and furrowed his brow in thought.

"Strange," he said when his partner had finished.

"Do you think you will be able to identify them if you translate more of the letters?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock said just as Penelope handed him his cup of tea.

Her eyes lit up with excitement when she realized they were talking about the case.

"What letters?" She questioned with curiosity.

Sherlock and John shared a look before John hesitantly replied.

"One of the victims wrote some letters to a friend…" He explained.

Sherlock looked at him with astonishment for telling the truth.

"Oooh! Which one?" She asked instantly.

Sherlock's forehead creased in question.

"How do you know the victims? Their names weren't released to the public yet," he asked.

Penelope looked like a caught child. Her face reddened and her eyes averted. She rubbed her arm nervously.

"Well...I was picking up in your room and I may have accidentally stumbled across something labeled 'case file'. But it was an accident I swear! It just...fell open," she admitted awkwardly.

"Penelope!" John exclaimed but without the expected anger. He seemed mostly disappointed by her snooping.

Sherlock on the other hand mumbled something under his breath in frustration that sounded similar to 'no privacy'.

"Well," John sighed, "I suppose we can't do anything about it. I'm assuming you know everything now."

"Pretty much," she nodded and sat down in her previous seat across from them.

"You should let me help!" She suggested.

Sherlock leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands steepled against his lips. He weighed their options and the possibility they had of arguing against the woman successfully. It was becoming slimmer by the second.

"Please John!" She pouted.

"No! It's dangerous anyways. You can't do what we do Penny. Accidents happen, criminals try to kill us. You don't know what you're asking."

Sherlock was surprised that John's argument was so effective. He sat up straight again when he noticed how quiet Penelope had become. She looked at the ground in a defeated manner.

Sherlock was rather impressed. He never would have considered the 'we care too much to let you do this' route.

Of course John would, he thought, John really does care. His expression is proof.

John's expression was certainly one of worry. Sherlock recognized it because he had seen it directed at him many times. A smile quirked at the edge of his lips as he mulled over the thought.

"Well maybe I can just give you help from here," she suggested.

"What do you mean?" John asked with concern. She smiled joyfully and exclaimed that she would be right back. She disappeared behind the curtain before the men could ask further questions.

"She's ridiculous," Sherlock uttered exhaustively.

"Oh stop it. You like her," John replied with confidence making Sherlock unable to dispute the point.

Penelope returned a few minutes later with the file and immediately began flipping through it. The partners watched her with curiosity as she removed a picture and handed it to them.

Sherlock took the picture and he and John examined it together. It was the wrist of one of the victims, post mortem. Sherlock immediately recognized it. One of the victims had a tattoo on their wrist of a violet flower and a crescent moon, although it was faded due to the saponification.

The consulting detective's eyes flicked back to the woman. She smiled triumphantly at him.

"I know what this tattoo is," she told him.

Sherlock smiled slightly.

"Really?" He asked, his eyes shining.

Penelope nodded, "It's a bar in town."


	20. Chapter 19: The Violet Moon

Sorry for the wait. Writer's block is killing my story!

Estella Jean

* * *

The purple neon sign glowed so brightly that it wasn't hard to find the door when walking down the main street. Just as Penelope had said, underneath the sign for The Violet Moon bar, was a painting on the bricks of a crescent moon and a violet flower which exactly matched that of the victim's tattoo. After she had explained the connection to them at the bookstore, Sherlock immediately talked his partner into going to find out more about the victim and the mysterious bar. It didn't take much to convince the doctor. The consulting detective simply stated that he was going and walked out the door. Of course John was soon to follow.

Now the two were nearing the entrance to the bar, following the purple glow at a comfortable pace. Sherlock was alert as ever, renewed by Penelope's clue and the freedom of investigating without dragging around Sgt. Grady. More surprising, John felt the same vigor and excitement in his step as he matched Sherlock's long strides despite his exhaustion from the day's activities. Somehow Sherlock had a way of channeling his energy through him. It didn't make sense. It didn't seem possible. And yet, since the first day they met, they undeniably shared an electric bond which made their minds and bodies work in tandem. Perhaps that is why the sound of Sherlock closing the door of Penelope's bookstore behind him had caused a yearning sensation in John, as if he was being pulled by a great force into the unknown.

Then again, it could have also been the nagging sensation in his gut that told him Sherlock is too careless to take care of himself. It was an emotion John secretly admitted to, a deep seated worry for his friend's well being.

However he came to be there, the blonde now watched the people coming and going from the establishment as he and Sherlock approached the door. They didn't stand out to him at first. Sure, there were a few people wearing some atypical attire, but they were few and far between and it didn't raise suspicion.

That is, until a couple that had just exited began to near them.

The woman was lithe, attractive, and had a blue streak in her otherwise dark short hair. The man with his arm around her waist had a similar outfit to John with a blue checkered shirt and a black jacket. At the moment the two pairs crossed, John made eye contact with the woman's date and saw that the person with her was in fact another woman.

John smiled politely and thought little of it, until two more women passed him from behind, holding hands. He furrowed his brow in confusion. He hadn't seen any men enter nor leave the entrance. Then he realized rather dumbly.

"This is a lesbian bar isn't it," he stated finally, leaning towards Sherlock and keeping his tone low.

Sherlock smiled without looking at his partner.

"And he catches on at last," he replied.

"How long have you known?" John asked but almost didn't want to know the answer, lest it reduce the confidence in his intelligence.

Sherlock watched the door as he spoke.

"Since I saw the picture. A trip to the mind palace resulted in the realization. I predicted a connection between the moon and the violet in the tattoo and a Greek myth about Artemis, goddess of the moon. Artemis turned her nymph companion into a violet to save her virginity from a man pursuing her. Artemis was often seen as being rather masculine, rebellious, and independent, challenging the norms of Classical Greece. In fact, in another myth, the myth of Artemis and Callisto, suggests she might have been attracted to women as well. The conclusion was obvious. Still, it seems like an odd choice for a bar..." He trailed off in thought.

They had reached the door then. John shook his head with a small smile thinking about how Sherlock seems to find meaning out of anything, and not only that, he also has the background knowledge to make those intriguing connections.

"Whatever," he muttered with a smile which he directed at a flyer on the brick wall instead of at the consulting detective. There were times when John oddly liked his smugness and show off attitude but they had work to do and the doctor was attempting to focus.

They didn't enter right away. John looked to Sherlock with uncertainty.

"Are you sure about this?" John asked tentatively.

"Why do always ask that? Have I ever not been sure about something?" Sherlock countered quickly with a critical expression. John stared at the little wrinkle between his brows and found it difficult to argue with.

He realized that it was a good point and looked down in submission.

"I suppose not. But…" he trailed off.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John and waited impatiently for him to continue.

"But?" He asked exasperatedly when he didn't finish his sentence, close to leaving the doctor behind rather than wasting another minute.

John looked at him incredulously as if he should have been able to deduce the issue.

"It's a gay bar Sherlock," he said finally.

"A lesbian bar to be specific," Sherlock responded without understanding his point.

John rolled his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets, searching around the night air as if it would give him an answer as to what he should do.

"This is crazy. I've never been to a lesbian bar. Not even with Harry. We don't really belong there. Don't you think we'll...you know...stand out," He explained with a rather awkward expression.

Sherlock looked at him blankly except for the slightest critical glint in his eyes. John realized who he was talking to and that Sherlock of all people didn't care about social normalcy.

The consulting detective straightened his shoulders and put his hand on the door handle.

"John it's just a bar. Nobody will even notice nor care. Stop worrying and follow my lead," he said firmly, with a whisper of a smirk.

John felt uncomfortable going in. He felt out of place, but he watched Sherlock and his usual disaffected demeanor and attempted to mimic it.

He told himself he was being silly to worry.

The bar was rather smoky, and not surprisingly, all the lights were in neon blue and purple hues. Ladies milled about the pool tables and the sleek bar with band posters tacked on the walls. Music blared from somewhere unknown and a few dancers stumbled around the dance floor in the center. There were a couple of large TVs mounted around the room, some playing football games and others playing random news broadcasts. Along the back wall there were dartboards and a few classic pinball machines that looked rather fun.

John was just about to venture further in when a strong hand pressed against his shoulder. He turned towards it and traced it up an arm and finally to a face.

A Latina woman with defined cheekbones and golden tan skin stood wearing a black uniform and a stern expression. Her strong arms were defined under her button up shirt and her curly hair draped at her shoulders in an ironically gentle way.

"You're not allowed in here. No cis men. Got it?" She said in a low tone and nodded to the door.

John began to sweat with anxiety, not wanting to gain too much attention to him and Sherlock. Already a few ladies turned to see what the issue was.

"Why wouldn't men be allowed? We just want a drink."

John tried to say calmly and looked to Sherlock for help. Sherlock frowned but seemed to prefer being an onlooker in the conflict.

The woman snorted at John's question and poor defense.

"Then go to one of the many straight bars in town. You clearly aren't from around here. We've been having issues with men coming in here from the bar next door to harass our customers for the past two years. Finally we had to do something about it."

"That's awful," John replied.

"Well you don't need to worry about that. Not us!" Sherlock said in an unexpectedly lighter tone than usual, "My boyfriend and I wanted to check it out. We are just passing through town looking for something fun to do."

It took John a few seconds to register what Sherlock had said, and when he did, he did a double take to make sure he was serious. His expression of confusion was stunned when the taller man's hand interwove with his own. He jumped and a little nervous laugh escaped him. He struggled to remind himself to respond and not just stand there like an idiot.

"Yes! Yes, uh just curious…passing through...boyfriend," John attempted to reply mindlessly. He couldn't follow any rational thoughts when Sherlock's long fingers and smooth palm were against his skin. He assumed he didn't sound too awkward but from the tight smile Sherlock gave him he knew he wasn't as convincing as he had thought.

The woman looked at them quizzically.

"There's another gay bar in the town over you could go to. Women and their dates only here. It's our policy," she repeated.

John grew ever nervous and hoped Sherlock couldn't feel him sweating.

"You don't understand," Sherlock began, but his tone sounded slightly desperate to stay in role, "You see-"

"They are with me," A familiar voice spoke behind the men and to their surprise Penelope had followed them. She was so innocent with her doe eyes and small stature that she juxtaposed the smoky liquor scented atmosphere. Sherlock and John blinked with surprise.

The woman's expression changed to one of familiarity as she saw Penelope. Her grin widened, flashing white teeth.

"Penelope! I haven't seen you here in awhile. You're with these men?" The bouncer asked kindly, her demeanor transformed.

Penelope smiled and nodded.

"Oh yes this is my cousin John and his boyfriend. They were just here visiting me. I'm sure Cindy wouldn't mind," Penelope explained.

The woman nodded in agreement and moved to the side to let the three enter further.

"Of course she wouldn't. You use to be her best customer," she grinned and nudged Penelope, letting out a hearty laugh.

"I still am! I better be," Penny replied with a laugh as she led the way. The men awkwardly stumbled to follow her to the glowing bar stools along the counter, still joined by their hands in an oddly comfortable manner.

John let out a breath of relief when he sat down and finally looked at his hand clasped with Sherlock's as if to prove they were indeed connected. Sherlock noticed and self consciously let go in an instant, mistaking the glance for awkwardness or disgust. He silently chastised himself for breaking the touch barrier with John so unconventionally and without warning. Even if it was for a case, Sherlock was aware of John's boundaries. He had observed the way the doctor became uneasy when someone entered his personal space. He of all people didn't want to induce that kind of unease in him.

John frowned at the loss of contact although he couldn't figure out why. Before he could ponder about it further, he was brought back to the issue at hand.

"Thank god you came Penny. I was beginning to worry we'd get thrown out," John chuckled.

Even Sherlock looked thankful for her presence, although his thoughts at the moment were messy and conflicted.

"You followed us," he stated plainly.

Penelope grinned mischievously at him.

"Like all good detectives I can trail people sneakily. I knew you wouldn't be able to get in without me. But I also knew you would find a way to get in without my help if I told you about it so I decided to wait till you were most desperate and then come to your rescue," she explained.

John scoffed and looked at her with surprise.

"That's evil Penny!" He exclaimed.

"Evil is not letting me help with the case!" She responded sternly but her serious expression only appeared like a cross child's.

John laughed and shook his head.

Sherlock stared at her with subtle admiration. He couldn't help but be interested in, and perhaps proud of, her manipulation skills. She seemed to be more clever by the moment.

"So Penny, you come here often?" John asked suddenly.

Penelope nodded and glanced around for the bartender, leaning up and swiveling in her barstool.

"Use to," she said casually.

"Sooo that means you're…" John began but trailed off.

She gave up, sitting back down. She looked straight at John with an uncomprehending expression.

"What?" She asked, tilting her head at the blonde man.

John cleared his throat and turned slightly red.

"Uh never mind," he chuckled.

Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion at the silent revelation which came unexpectedly to him. He hadn't deduced that about Penelope. He would have never known in fact. He felt a weight lift off his shoulders as if a worry had been abolished. He glanced at John with a ghost of a smile and sat more resolutely in his seat.

"Back to the case shall we? It seems she's determined to help so we might as well get on with it," he told the other two.

"Right," John agreed with a firm nod, "So what's the plan?"

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the countertop as he thought. His eyes flicked to Penelope.

"Cindy's the owner then correct?" He asked her.

"Yeah," Penelope replied, glancing back to the area behind the bar for second but returning her attention back to the consulting detective when she didn't sense movement.

Sherlock's eyes flashed with an idea.

"Introduce us will you?" He told her.

Penelope laughed lightly but nodded.

"If I ever find her! She must be chatting with someone. She's usually working as the bartender during week nights."

"Great so no witness and no drinks. Why did we come here again Sherlock?" John asked his partner a bit tiredly.

Sherlock ignored John's complaint. He spun around in the barstool impatiently, scanning the room for anyone who looked like a bartender. He noted the pool tables and the unappealing dance floor but found no sign of an employee. He was about to call the night a bust when a tall middle aged woman with wavy chestnut hair and a waist high apron appeared behind a door with a small group of ladies. She caught Sherlock's expectant eye and then noticed Penelope and quickly maneuvered over to them.

"It's my best customer," the woman said with a bright grin as she returned behind the counter and adjusted the tie on her apron.

"Sorry for the wait. That was next week's band. We were making arrangements. I haven't seen you for awhile Penny. How's life been treating you?" Cindy asked, leaning against the counter to talk to the woman.

"Same ole same ole mostly. Business at the shop has been pretty consistent," Penelope responded.

Sherlock sighed with the slightest aggravation which only John would be able to pick up on. Penelope must have noticed too however because she immediately introduced them.

"This is my cousin John and his boyfriend Sherlock," she introduced, gesturing to the men respectively.

Cindy stretched out her hand politely and both men shook it. It was a social pleasantry which Sherlock would only observe when in character. Sadly the contact reminded him of holding John's hand moments before and how brief it had occurred. He realized he hadn't had the chance to memorize the wrinkles on his palm or the calluses or whether or not he bit his nails. They were necessary pieces of data to have and yet he never knew when he'd have another chance.

The far away frown on the consulting detective's face was disguised by a fake smile toward the bartender.

"Pleasure to meet you," he muttered robotically. John expected him to say more but he didn't, instead giving him a subtle nod of encouragement. The doctor gave him an odd look but knew what Sherlock was asking.

_You're better at this bit anyway John. You're more...tactful. Go on would you?_

John agreed silently with his eyes and then filled in the awkward silence spontaneously.

"It's a lovely bar. I almost thought we wouldn't be let in though! What's this issue about harassment?" John prodded conversationally, hoping he wouldn't sound too nosey. He glanced at Sherlock and Sherlock returned a look of appreciation.

Cindy didn't seem to mind at all but she rolled her eyes suddenly.

"Vanessa tried to kick you out didn't she?" She asked with an annoyed tone and cheeks reddening with embarrassment.

John chuckled awkwardly and gave a nod as he said, "Well yes, sort of."

"Ah," Cindy nodded without surprise, "She tends to do that. She is rather no nonsense. She used to be a police officer in the states. She likes to observe the rules a little too well. Of course being a female officer is not always easy, especially when you're attractive like Vanessa. She had to deal with a lot of losers hitting on her to throw her off her game which is why she has no problem kicking out troublemakers here. She is both a curse and a blessing. Clearly she's taking this policy a little too seriously. We just had a few nasty incidents mostly involving the same group of jerks. It was just easier this way since they were really the only guys who ever came in here anyway, besides the occasional transgender man and obviously they aren't a threat to our customers."

Cindy played it off casually but John thought there might be something important in that information and prodded further.

"That's too bad. What did the men do?"

The woman sighed and picked at her nails before looking back up at him regretfully.

"Well, mostly they came in here drunk at 1:00am and tried to buy drinks for the ladies, making obscene and offensive comments as you can imagine. And if they were to refuse…well let's just say it was hard to get rid of them. We handled it on an individual basis for a while, kicking them out when they started trouble, but then...well...something happened to one of our employees which is why we hired Vanessa. But obviously you're not associated with them. Vanessa shouldn't have given you trouble."

Cindy seemed saddened and shaken up by the topic. She turned away from John quickly and immediately changed the subject.

"So what will you have to drink?" She asked Penelope joyfully, stepping back from the counter she previously leaned against.

"Oh, um, the usual?" She said tentatively, uncertain whether Cindy would remember anymore.

Apparently she did because the woman smiled and turned to the bottles, getting to work right away.

"What about you John?" She asked with her back to him.

"The same," he said to make things easier. His thoughts were more focused on how to bring up the previous topic skillfully than on the alcoholic beverage.

He absentmindedly watched her mix liquids and shake them together in a metallic shaker.

Sherlock meanwhile was pondering the information he had learned. He wondered whether their victim might have worked there at one point or at the least been a frequent customer. The violet and the crescent moon tattoo flashed in his mind. They were the only things they really knew connected the victim with the location. It wasn't much to go off of. But, it seemed rather drastic, to get a tattoo of a logo of a bar.

_Whatever she might have been, this location must have had a deep meaning to her. Did she meet a significant other here? Did she somehow help it grow from the ground up alongside Cindy? Was it where she came to terms with her sexuality? Or was she the one… _Sherlock paused his thoughts as he came across an important possibility.

Without thinking he began muttering out loud.

"Such an interesting logo this place has. Did you design it? It's quite artistic."

Cindy finished making the drinks as she responded to the question.

"Oh no, a friend of mine did. She used to work here for awhile. She was an amazing tattoo artist. In fact the logo was based on a tattoo design. I'm sure she would have loved to hear the compliment."

"Would have?" Sherlock asked, his eyes glowing with discovery, knowing that the woman Cindy spoke of must have been the victim. The owner served the drinks to Penelope and John.

John stared at the purple liquid, trying to figure out what he had ordered. He shrugged and took a sip. To his shock, he was hit was by a syrupy sweetness which he wasn't expecting. The familiar bitter warm aftertaste or liquor was missing. He cringed and watched Penelope happily drink it. He wasn't surprised in the least.

"Yes," Cindy said slowly, "She… took a leave of absence and I haven't seen her since. If she ever comes around again I'll let her know you said something about her art. What would you like?"

"Nothing," he replied with a pressured smile. He found another route to get around the woman's evasiveness and decided to run with it.

"Well that's too bad. You see, I'm a graphic design artist for a home products company and I've been looking for someone to collaborate with. I think she might be the kind of person I'm looking for. It would pay well."

Cindy put her palms on the counter and frowned down at the surface. She was silent for a minute as she contemplated something. The jingling sound of ice on glass was heard as Penelope sipped her drink and John stirred his around.

Finally Cindy finished contemplating her words and spoke in a quiet tone to Sherlock.

"I'm afraid… I don't think Katherine will be able to accept the offer. You see... she went missing six months ago…"

Sherlock faked shock and empathy. A sadness transforming his features on the outside while he remained stoic internally.

"Oh that's awful!" He exclaimed, "And such a shame. I would have loved to see what other designs she had."

Cindy paused in thought, biting her lip gently.

"You know," she said at last, "I have a portfolio of some of her work in the back. I'm sure she wouldn't have minded me showing you as long as you don't use it without her permission."

The neurons in the detective's brain lit with intrigue and he grinned genuinely at the woman this time.

"That sounds great."

The woman left for a moment and returned from the back room with a purple binder. She handed it to Sherlock for him to look through.

John and Penelope both leaned in their bar stool seats and turned to watch Sherlock lift the cover of the portfolio. He flipped the plastic coated pages with nimble fingers and after the third one they discovered there was a recurring theme in the colorful images that the victim, known as Katherine, had created. Bold paint strokes captured vibrant watercolor shapes of flowers, symbols, animals, constellations, figures, and words. They each shared a harmony of shape and color and heavily relied on symbolism.

"Interesting symbols," Sherlock mumbled. He lifted his eyes to John at the same time he looked to Sherlock. The two were temporarily distracted by their proximity and sudden eye contact but it didn't stop Sherlock from speaking in a hushed and breathless tone as he described the evidence. John watched his lips absentmindedly as he spoke.

"See this symbol?" Sherlock asked and pointed to a fork-like calligraphic letter. It was at the base of a watercolor elk head with sharp angular antlers.

John examined the letter and nodded with a slight smile.

"Enlighten me, Sherlock. What is it?" he asked with an admirable glow in his eyes which had a natural presence when Sherlock was near. It seemed as if he were secretly daring him with silent words to incite more statements of amazement.

"_Brilliant_," Sherlock yearned to hear and John yearned to say.

The consulting detective's lip curled upward at the end in tender appreciation. He couldn't help but notice the feather light wrinkles under John's eyes.

He could have spent hours deducing those lines but Penelope broke the intimacy of the moment like the drawing of a curtain.

"C'mon Sherlock. Stop doing this suspenseful drama thing! What is it?" She laughed, oblivious to their moment.

John snickered because he knew exactly what she meant about the "suspenseful drama thing". It was a habit, a narcissistic trait of Sherlock's. What John didn't know is that with him it was always different. Sherlock never put on a show for John like he did for Lestrade or Anderson or countless others who he held himself above. He just simply wanted to be seen by him. But John only looked at the man with humorous expectation now, without the craivable intensity of before.

Sherlock noticed the shift in the moment and tried not to show his disappointment on his features. He cleared his throat and answered the question in his usual tone again.

"Well, this is a Germanic rune for protection. Notice how the shape of the rune is similar to the shape of the elk's antlers? That's what the name of rune was derived from. Elhaz."

"I see," John nodded and sipped his drink, "Do you think there's any significance in that?"

Sherlock hummed in thought.

"I'm working on theories…" He mumbled but didn't care to elaborate.

Penelope slid the book over to her slightly and flipped the page. She scanned the next tattoo design.

"Cherry blossoms. It's beautiful," she mumbled to herself and gestured to a collection of realistic little pink flowers composing half of a woman's porcelain face. The petals fell away at the bottom as if she was slowly disintegrating into the wind. As expected, there was a symbol at the edge of the painting.

"That's what the kanji symbol means. Sakura," Sherlock told her.

"Quite the variety of culture," John noted into his glass, the ice clanging against the sides.

"Yes it is," Sherlock agreed.

Sherlock continued to look through the book, noting the different cultures and symbols being represented, while Penelope and John drifted into their own conversation.

Just as he was about to close the cover of the book, he saw the corner of a yellow piece of paper sticking out from behind one of the pictures underneath the plastic furrowed his brow and gracefully slid the paper out in a single gesture. It was a post it note with a phone number and a message.

'_A man asked for you when you were out. He said for you to call him back. He sounded upset..._

_-C'_

Sherlock glanced up to see where Cindy was. When he noticed she was attending other customers, he slyly slipped the paper into his pocket, then closed the book and pushed it further toward the other side of the counter to signify that he was finished with it.

"Well John. We found what we needed I believe," Sherlock announced. When he turned around however, neither John nor Penelope were sitting at the bar any longer.

He realized that more time had passed while he had been looking through the portfolio than he had expected. As usual, enthrallment in a case had caused him to lose track of his surroundings. The consulting detective swung around in confusion and slight panic at the loss of John's presence. He let out a breath of shaky relief when found the two loudly playing one of the vintage pinball machines at the back of the room. Above that particular machine was a wooden placard that Sherlock could barely read if he squinted. Following the words '_Unbeaten since' _there was a nail with movable numbered cards reading '_2006'_. The bookstore owner laughed as the doctor let out a spontaneous curse at the machine and an exclamation that 'It looks so easy!'.

The consulting detective rolled his eyes and mumbled something critical under his breath about a good waste of money but it was such a shallow response to the scene. In reality, he found something intriguing in the way John exaggerated his playing style while Penelope cheered him on. He did a little step with his feet and released the pull device. Sounds beeped and chimed annoying tunes from the machine which aggravated Sherlock's mind, but beyond that he could only hear John's laughter. He felt a smile tug at his lips irrepressibly.

"Just a bit of advice love," Cindy's voice broke his thoughts from behind him.

"Hm?" he hummed in question while still watching John as he decided to play with one hand behind his back even though he was rubbish while using both.

Cindy leaned her forearms on the surface of the counter and smirked knowingly at Sherlock and then the object of his gaze.

"When people let loose every once in awhile it can be pretty...attention grabbing to the right people if you get what I mean," she whispered as if it was a great secret, "And so can competition."

Sherlock's forehead wrinkled as he tried to decipher what she had meant.

"Hm...I don't know what you're…" He responded, glancing at her.

She gave him a knowing smile again and nodded to John. Sherlock should have known what she was implicating. He could deduce what breed of cat she owns and how long ago she had painted her nails just from one look, but as always with anything that pertained to John, he was clueless.

However, his own thoughts eventually trailed to the same idea.

_We have been focusing on this case so hard...perhaps we all need a break, _he decided, listening to the relief in John's laughter.

Suddenly he stood up from the barstool, straightened his jacket, and walked over to John through the smoky air with his typical confident stride.

A not so terrible song began to play over the speakers and by the time he reached John the music almost drowned out the sound of the pinball machine. John had just barely missed getting the ball in the hole when he tapped him on the shoulder, making him jump unexpectedly. He turned and grinned at Sherlock excitedly.

"Did you see that? I am damn good at this game. I got that close," he bragged, showing the space with his fingers in more of a hyperbolic way than a realistic one if Sherlock were to describe it.

"Fantastic. Now it's my turn," he said, lightly pushing John to the side with a smirk.

"Oh really? You think _you_ can win? Sherlock Holmes is going to win at an arcade game when he probably has never played one in his life?" John teased with a laugh, standing close to the man as he inserted the money. Sherlock only smirked in response as he straightened his sleeves and prepared to play the game.

Penelope laughed too at the idea, "Can you beat the 2006 record is the real question!'

Sherlock didn't respond, instead leaning to the left and right of the machine and crouching to get its approximate size and degree of angle.

"No problem," he told them as he stood up again. He took a deep breath, gripped the pull lever and slowly,very slowly, began to pull it.

John groaned at his overthought method.

"Oh Sherlock just play the damn game!" he laughed at his meticulousness.

Sherlock shooed him with his hand and shushed him gently.

"You do your sloppy jump skip method but I prefer…" Sherlock paused to inhale.

"A more scientific approach…" he finished, letting go of the pull device. His eyes darted, chasing the ball across the slanted surface as it raced and bounced. He timed exactly when to press the buttons activating the flippers on either side of the machine, but despite his calculations, the force of the impact was too much. The ball hit the flippers, then the top walls, and fell back through the maze of noisy pegs and returned to the bottom of the machine. Sherlock stared at the taunting lights with astonished defeat, hands still resting on the buttons of the machine, which made both John and Penelope laugh.

"Scientific eh?" he teased his partner.

Sherlock snapped out of his loss and bounced back as the ball had done seconds before, immediately putting another coin into the machine.

"Again. I just need to do it again. Statistically speaking I'll get it eventually," he spoke with absolution.

Nearly an hour later the men had collectively played more times than they cared to keep track of. Sometime after 17 Sherlock stopped counting out of shame. Penelope had stood on the sidelines at first, and eventually gravitated to an empty seat pulled close to them. She cheered at promising times and made sounds of disgrace and defeat when they lost.

So far neither were closer to beating the record but both were nearing a kind of ecstatic exhaustion.

"I need a break Sherlock," John gasped Sherlock's name. He rather clumsily tripped into the chair beside Penelope's.

Sherlock nodded breathlessly after his postgame adrenaline, realizing that it was much later at night than he was aware. It would be best to return to the bookstore so they would be rested for the next day.

"Think we better go?" John suggested.

Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"But Penny didn't get to play," John noted with an apologetic frown to the woman.

Sherlock glanced at the bookstore owner. She stared back innocently, not wanting to get in the way of their decision making. Sherlock caved with a sigh of aggravation.

"Whatever. Do you think you could play once Penny just so John doesn't form a guilt complex?" he asked in an irritated tone.

Penelope grinned excitedly.

"Why not?" she said. She hopped up from her seat and entered a 20p into the machine.

Sherlock took a deep breath and fell into Penelope's previous seat beside John. The doctor rested his head in his hand and blinked, only half awake as he watched her play. The need for sleep had caught up to him as the consulting detective had predicted. Sherlock slightly smiled at the drowsiness in his eyes and relaxed posture and in his breaths which threatened to transform into yawns. His expression and body language suggested that he was satisfied. His exhaustion was a different kind of exhaustion than earlier at Penelope's. This was the byproduct of the random spontaneity they had shared, like the energy lost during a heart pumping case. It had been a pleasant change in pace for them both.

To Sherlock's great surprise, his thoughts were bulldozed by a cacophony of sounds emanating from the machine. Seizure inducing lights flashed and the words 'Winner' went by in a glowing banner at the top of the machine. John sat up and Sherlock watched with his mouth agape as coins came flying out of the machine and went clattering to the floor. Penny tried frantically and unsuccessfully to gather them.

"How is that possible? She didn't even play once!" Sherlock exclaimed with an embarrassing level of jealousy in his tone.

Sherlock couldn't help but glance from the corner of his eye at the bucket of coins, half of which were probably his, that Penelope lugged the four blocks back to the bookstore. He couldn't let go of the fact that sheer luck beat his method in one try and both John and Penelope snickered at his obvious struggle to accept it.

By the time they reached the bookstore, they were exhausted and climbed the stairs to their respective bedrooms in a nearly zombified fashion. John immediately curled into his "bed", which was a generous title for the sunken cushioned armchair in the corner of the room. Sherlock sat on the edge of his mattress, untying his shoelaces, curiously peering at John as he did so. The man was still carelessly wearing the trousers and checkered shirt from earlier, underneath the thin fleece blanket Penelope had lent him.

He looked so uncomfortable with his legs curled and his knees pressing against the armrest that a feeling of guilt assaulted the consulting detective. John shifted to get more at ease but his expression suggested that he wasn't successful. Sherlock glanced at the spacious mattress his own body rested on, and uncharacteristically brought himself to do the right thing.

"John," he said awkwardly, getting up from his spot on the bed unwillingly.

"Hm," he hummed in response.

"Get up John. You… take the bed tonight," he told him.

John's eyes opened halfway at his friend.

"Are you sure?" he questioned in shock, his eyes examining Sherlock to make sure he was serious.

"Positive. It's...more logical," Sherlock fumbled to come up with a reason other than the fact that he was feeling guilty and concerned for John's well being.

John sat up further, the fleece blanket falling, and gave him a look of surprise and uncertainty. Sherlock rolled his eyes at his lack of action.

"Take it before I change my mind," he told him, but John knew he wouldn't. He finally got up from the seat and slowly stepped around the maze of books to the bed, where he immediately crawled under the covers and appeared visibly more relaxed. He sighed into the pillow.

"Thanks Sherlock," he mumbled, truly grateful for the rare moment of sacrifice. Sherlock smiled ever so slightly at the sentiment and returned to the armchair without any regrets about the decision. Minutes later John's soft snores filled the room. The sound of John's breathing relaxed him, but even as time passed, he found he was unable to allow his mind to rest.

Too many thoughts raced in his brain like a great churning machine. There were too many connections yet to be made and too many threads of information yet to be neatly tied together.

It made him frustrated, anxious, hypersensitive. He jiggled his leg impatiently until he had to find another outlet for his energy.

He removed his phone and the post it note from the stack of books composing his makeshift nightstand beside the chair. He furrowed his brow at the number and accompanying message, wondering who the mystery man was who had contacted Katherine.

'_He sounded upset…' I wonder why, _he pondered.

He looked up a phone number tracker service on the internet and typed the number into the first resulting website.

He stared at the loading circle impatiently, tapping his fingers on the armchair as he waited for his answer.

'_Number no longer available', _he read to his dismay. He frowned at the results, and let out out a sharp sigh which caused John to stir. Sherlock looked to John quickly in worry that his frustration had woken him, but he returned to snoring.

Sherlock took a deep breath and eased into the chair again, pondering the information about the victim.

_She worked at the bar, long enough ago for her to design the logo. The paint was...maybe a year old on the bricks outside. So roughly a year long she worked there. Tattoo artist. Maybe she worked with a tattoo parlor previous to the bar, in which case, the mysterious phone number might belong to an employer, a past fellow employee, or perhaps even a customer. Then again, a family member has not yet been ruled out. Nor a close friend. Ugh so much data needed! I suppose it's a job for John and Grady and the never ending round of questions. So far all that torture has suggested no lead whatsoever. What connects the victims? Are they even connected? There was Annie McCray with her mother issues and innocent convict ex. Rebecca Larson, the hermit with alcohol dependency and writer's block. Amala Bassi, the foreign student stuck in a love triangle because of her poor decision making skills and a mysterious friend giving her much needed advice ...Then there's Katherine, the bartender and tattoo artist with a mysterious caller..._

_Possibly it could be the same person. _

Sherlock wasn't sure when he began tacking bits of paper to the wall by the armchair and scribbling large notes on them, but by the time the sun had risen nearly half of Penelope's vintage wallpaper was concealed by them: clues, facts, and theories.


End file.
